Mardi Gras
by lenina20
Summary: Sequel to Prom Night. Caroline and Tyler travel down to New Orleans, as desperate times, such as, I don't know, Tyler ripping out the heart of Caroline's latest fling under the influence of Klaus's compulsion, definitely call for desperate measures. Multi-chaptered. TVD/The Originals crossover. The Originals AU. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello guys! **

**So, this is the sequel to Prom Night, which was my take on how the season might end for Klaus and Caroline. It's going to be a multi-chaptered fic. It won't be long, but I tried making it into a one shot, and the first scene was over 2,000 words so I decided that make it into a short-ish multi-chaptered instead, so I could explore the possibility of Caroline crossing onto The Originals a tiny bit more deeply. **

**Hope you guys will like it!**

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_.-._

_they told me to take a streetcar named Desire, _

_and then transfer to one called Cemeteries_

_and ride six blocks and get off at Elysian Fields_

.-.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

.-.

For a whole minute she debates with herself, wonders if the red fog she sees is the anger burning in her veins, or just the blood dripping off Tyler's hands, reflecting on the blinking, dirty lights of the hall.

(She can't believe—)

He's holding Noah's heart in his clenched fist, eyes wide in shock like the move has caught him off-guard, too. Like he didn't know he was doing it. Flashing out of the room, flying down the stairs to catch up with the young, overexcited vampire before he got away. Couldn't let him get away, could he? Before the poor guy knew what was happening, Tyler's hand had ripped through his chest, and he was dead. Dead dead _dead_.

Heartless. Lying on the floor. Inert like a _thing_.

(_"I want to take you away, Caroline," he grinned, thrilled. "How does Mardi Gras sound for spring break?"_)

Noah is dead, and Caroline—

—she can't do anything but gape like a fish out of water, scream in silence and just stand there, petrified like an idiot. She doesn't understand. She can't _believe_ that Tyler—

"What happened?"

Stefan's soft, familiar voice seeps down the stairway as he lands by their side. He's flashed down too, closely followed by Damon and Elena, who are looking just as confused. As soon as Damon notices the body lying limp on the floor, he whistles, and Caroline's heart turns over in her chest. "Wow, wolf boy," Damon sneers. "Thought you had a better grip on that quick temper of yours these days. Poor guy was only planning a little spring break get-away here with your ex—"

(_"New Orleans?" Caroline did her best to keep the panic from slipping out with her words. No no no. She couldn't go to New Orleans, could she? But how could she explain to Noah—"_)

"Damon," Stefan warns him, quickly moving to stand protectively between Tyler and Caroline. Caroline is grateful, but at the same time—Stefan's eyes are locked on Tyler, hard and dark, and his voice drops, heavy as lead when he repeats the question: "What happened, Tyler?"

Still dumbfounded, Tyler shakes his head; seems incapable of doing anything else. His eyes are wide and blank, still; Noah's heart is still clutched in between the tight grip of his fingers. Still dead; unbeating; hard and rocklike like a toy. He looks possessed. He looks beside himself; like he's out of it, _gone_, and when at last, painstakingly slow, his lips begin to move—

—it downs on Caroline before she hears the name slide out of Tyler's mouth.

"Klaus."

She doesn't recognize her own voice, so low and weak, when she says, almost immediately: "He compelled you."

It's not a question. There is not a hint of a doubt in her mind. It takes her longer to figure it out than it should have, she realizes, but as soon as she says the words, the floodgates open, and there's no way to keep it out. Maybe, she thinks, cruelly—maybe she always knew. Why else would Klaus let Tyler go, if he wasn't using him? To protect Caroline. How fucking _noble _of him. Forcing Tyler to remain by her side all the time, ever after their relationship falls to pieces, because turns out you can't go and have sex with the original hybrid just because, while he's trying to kill your boyfriend, and get to make as if it never happened. Not while Klaus wasn't denying that he loved her. Not while he was making stupid promises about waiting for her—forever. Turns out, you just can't make it like it never was—like you never _almost_ fell for the devil. You also never _almost_ fell out of love with the guy you promised, _until we find a way_.

Liar liar, pants on fire.

(_"I've heard the original family is living there," Noah insisted, his eyes gleaming with excitement, so misguided. "Wouldn't it be cool, seeing them? I've heard the most unbelievable tales—"_

_"Why—why would you want to see them?" Caroline stuttered, hid her eyes away. "They're dangerous. They're—I'm sure it's just a rumour. People wouldn't know—no one ever ones where they are."_)

Tyler manages to catch her eye, somewhere in between Damon's loud scoff and Elena's high-pitched gasp—"Klaus compelled you!?"

Ignoring her, his gaze fixed on Caroline, Tyler nods slowly, swallows, breathes in. He finally unclenches his fist, finally lets the torn heart fall with a tiny, deaf _thud_ to the floor. Caroline realizes then, stupidly: they're standing in the middle of their dorm hall. Anyone could walk in. Any of their new friends—their safe haven, they had believed, like the fools they are. People just like them. College students, young vampires—trying to have fun and get along and _not_ hurt people. A bit too overexcited, maybe, about the delights of their supernatural existence. Like Noah, so laughably eager for adventure; so innocent. He'd heard tales and hearsays about the original family staying in New Orleans, taking over the place, watching as the supernatural life of the city brimmed and flourished under their bloody reign.

(_"We're young, Caroline! We should be reckless!"_

_"It's too soon, Noah," she protested. They'd only gone on a few group dates; barely made out a couple of times. "We should spend more time together before—"_)

Caroline swallows the painful lump in her throat, bites her tongue because she feels she should be crying, but her eyes are dry, twitching away from the body on the floor every time they bump into it, on accident. She chooses to keep looking at Tyler instead, hide away the disappointment (_it's not Tyler's fault_)when she whispers, "He wouldn't have hurt me."

He wouldn't have—

"He knew," Tyler sighs, bloodied fingers rubbing his forehead, hiding his face for a second or two. Caroline knows he's right, but still she flinches when Tyler elaborates, "He would have told everyone."

(_"Planning a romantic trip to go a see the original hybrid asshole and his original lunatic siblings?" Damon snorted, stepping out of Elena's room like he owned the place. "Can I come and see the carnage?"_)

It's Damon's fault.

Damon, and his big disgusting mouth. His snarky little comments, that he can't keep in if his sorry worthless life depends on it. Like he believes he's so funny, so witty, that it physically pains him to keep the world from knowing just how _funny_ he is. Like he'd die (_if only_) if he daredshut the _fuck_ up, even when she _pled_ him to _please, shut your fucking hole_, but no, he hadn't—

(_"Sorry, dude. Big bad's got dibs," he smirked, so smug; so pleased with himself. "Hasn't Barbie vamp told you 'bout her dangerous liaison with the Evil King? She's been a bad, bad girl, our sweet and seemingly innocent Caroline."_)

Slowly, deliberately, Caroline turns away from Tyler to look at Damon, tasting murder in the back of her throat. She doesn't feel any sadness; she still doesn't want to cry over the nice young boy who only wanted to take her to Mardi Gras for spring break, but _oh_—the anger. She does feel the anger. The lack of tears is only fuelling her guilt, and it takes seconds for the guilt to morph into blinding, searing _fury_.She feels it boiling like grease, about to burst into flames. She's not angry at Tyler anymore—she's crept out and disturbed and worried sick now that she knows, for sure, why he's still there, with her; now that she knows what Klaus has made him do. In the back of her head she's livid at Klaus, but she can't think about that now. She can't think about him. She _can't_.But Damon—

—it's awfully convenient, that he's standing right there for her to scream at.

So she narrows her eyes, and knots her hands on her hips to keep herself from trying to tear his eyes out of their sockets with her fingernails. "You bigmouthed _jackass_," she hisses, taking only a few steps toward Damon before Elena steps in the way, protective and confused and so annoying in her stupid, stupid, _gross_ love for the biggest asshole that ever lived, that Caroline contemplates the thought of pulling her hair until she bleeds only so she can pull her away.

She thinks better of it when Elena speaks, so sweet and soft and innervating that Caroline groans out loud. "Caroline," Elena asks, smiling kindly, "what's happening? I don't understand. Why would Klaus compel Tyler to kill Noah? Because you were dating or—?"

Caroline closes her eyes, and cringes. There is no way she can make Elena understand. It's impossible. She wishes there was something she could say to fix the mess but she—

There was only one rule.

One easy simple rule to follow. One request. One reason to leave and don't look back—not _yet_.

_No one can know you exist, Caroline_.

She turns to Tyler in a flash, Damon forgotten on the spot. She makes a decision without stopping to think about it. She knows that, if she does—she'll talk herself out of it. She has to move now that her anger has her fuming, reckless and determined. Desperate times call for desperate measures, don't they? She could have handled Noah—if one of his stupid compelled vampires had taken care of it—perhaps Caroline would've been able to keep her head cold and straight. But having _Tyler_ kill him? Watching it happen? She can't handle that. She can't handle having Tyler there, seeing him turned into Klaus's puppet once again—doesn't matter how specific the compulsion might be. Klaus has him _killing_.To protect Caroline, he has Tyler murdering anyone who might _eventually_ become _at some point_ some _kind_ of threat to her, and she _can't_ handle that. So she shrugs, filled with dread and bitter disappointment:

"I guess we're going to Mardi Gras after all." She makes sure that the words come out strong and steady and very much _not_ up to be discussed, even though she is shaking inside.

Unsurprisingly though, Tyler and Stefan speak at the same time, protesting, _protecting_—

"No, we're not."

"Care… are you sure?"

She doesn't waste a moment taking their complaints into consideration. She isn't going to second guess herself on this, or she knows she'll never make it. Locking eyes with Tyler, she insists, sure than she was before. "Yes, we are. _I am _going," she clarifies, one finger pointed because this is her decision, _damn it_. "I'll assume your orders don't include snapping my neck if I disobey, so you're not going to stop me. But you _are_ compelled to protect me, aren't you? So I guess that means you're coming down there with me."

All the better, she supposes.

She needs Tyler with her if she's going to get Klaus to free him of his compulsion—and also, _not_ kill him. She has no idea how she's going to do that, but she'll cross that bridge when she comes to it. She knows that Tyler isn't the only one. She knows that there are others watching her, compelled to keep her safe and _unknown_. She has to figure out a way to keep them away, or at least keep them from hurting anyone she may meet, or grow to care for. Isn't she supposed to be living her life? Having _fun_?

She has to find a way out of the trap she's locked herself in.

But before—

—Tyler comes first. _He_ gets to walk out.

(Caroline needs him to walk out.)

Isn't Klaus like, a fucking _thousand_ years old?

All in, yes.

But no more of these sick, twisted, dirty little games.

.-.

**tbc.**

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** Future chapters will hopefully be longer ;) Let me know what you thought! And - as always, thank you so much for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Here it is, chapter 2!**

**Thank you to those of you who let me a comment – I know the first chapter wasn't the greatest, but it feels good to know some of you enjoyed it, and wanted to keep on reading. Thanks also to those who followed – I hope this chapter won't be a disappointment!**

**Thank you all for reading, as always!**

* * *

**Chapter 2**

**.-.**

The voice of the flight attendant comes out through the loud speakers, clear and beautiful. _Cabin crew, please take your seats for __take-off__._

Planes are faster than cars, so, Caroline figures, their trip will be less awkward if they fly. So a plane it is, even though she never liked flying much and, well—it's not like she's scared. She knows she'd survived the fall, even if it hurt like hell. But it's a small space, and it _flies_, and she might kinda sorta immortal these days, but her strength and speed are of little use in such confinement, and the over a hundred pulses beating all around her are not helping her keep cool.

_Ladies and gentlemen, the Captain has turned off the __Fasten Seat Belt sign__, and you may now move around the cabin. However we always recommend to keep your seat belt fastened while you're seated. You may now turn on your __electronic devices__ such as calculators, CD players and laptop computers._

It's one of the cheap ones, so her knees keep bumping on the seat in front of hers, but that's okay. It's annoying and uncomfortable, but it gives her something else to focus on, something else to be annoyed about, rather than being consumed instead by her own thoughts about what she is doing, why she is doing it—who she's doing it with.

What happens when the plane lands in New Orleans, and she has to face to music.

It's a nice distraction, thinking about how much she doesn't like planes, but it doesn't do the trick for long. Fast as planes are these days, Caroline was never the best at biting her tongue and keeping quiet and _not_ blurting out her thoughts without any kind of filter—not when something is really bothering her, eating away her thoughts in the back of her head and tying up knots into her stomach, in turn with the little jump the plane makes when it hits an unexpected bump in the clouds.

_Ladies and gentlemen, the Captain has turned on the __fasten seat belt sign__. We are now crossing a zone of turbulence. Please return your seats and keep your seat belts fastened. __Thank you._

"So the bracelet… that was you?"

The question jumps out of her clenched teeth, refusing to obey Caroline's very stern order to just go and die a slow painful death down the back of throat. It's silly; it's _wrong_. It's at least fifty shades of inappropriate but the thought will not leave her alone, and it's easy to rationalize her morbid curiosity into a twisted form of kindness. You see, she needs Tyler to deny it, so at least she can start feeling a little less guilty about the entire messed-up situation she currently finds herself in, travelling down to New Orleans to reunite with Klaus, her ex-boyfriend hanging on her arm.

So hey, at least she gets to be glad for a few seconds when Tyler scoffs, disdainful, shaking his head like he doesn't believe her nerve. "I don't know anything about a bracelet," he spits with a dark chuckle, eyes suddenly lost in the aisle so he doesn't have to look at her—the long legs of a redheaded flight attendant seems a lot more appealing to him, and it's not like Caroline can resent him for that.

She wanted the see the clouds, so she asked for the window seat.

"For my birthday," she insists, even though she doesn't really know why. Her voice sounds distant even to her own ears, like maybe she isn't talking at all. She surely isn't talking to Tyler, she figures. The words are meant for her own peace of mind, because, even though it's been months, she hasn't stopped thinking about the stupid diamond bracelet, again and again, disbelief crossing her thoughts in a dangerous mix with longing, guilt and resentment. It was bad enough knowing that he had left her a gift—_the_ gift, actually: the same exact bracelet, one year later, because turns out diamonds might or might not be a girl's best friend, but they can have _loads _of sentimental value alright—but hadn't bothered staying; or maybe he hadn't showed up at all to wish her a happy birthday. Maybe he'd just sent someone to drop the jewellery box. Like Caroline's birthday is an _errand_.

It's not like she _wanted_ him there. It's not like she had _wanted_ to spend the entire day thinking of him, and her birthday one year before. Her fateful eighteenth birthday, when she broke up with her boyfriend, celebrated her own funeral, made up with her boyfriend, was bitten by him only seconds later, and…then, Klaus showed up in her bedroom and talked her out of her very, _very_ pathetic death wish. And he healed her. She drank his blood, and one year later, she could still taste it pouring down her throat. The taste of him, it never disappears. So _no_, it's really not like she planned to spend her nineteenth birthday thinking about Klaus—that was, quite literally, the _opposite_ of her plan. But Klaus just happens to be the biggest asshole that ever lived, so _of course_ she had woken to a familiar velvet box sitting on her nightstand, wrapped in a beautiful silk ribbon. The sense of déjà-vu had clouded her mind for a second. There was no note this time, and for a moment she was sure she'd turn around to find him standing by the window, watching her while she slept like the absolute creep he is.

But he wasn't there. And he never showed up at all.

She won't ever admit it out loud, no matter how ruthlessly you torture her—but in the back of her mind she had been waiting, expecting him to appear out of thin air every time she turned a corner, every time a shadow strayed from the party crowd. Her waiting had been in vain, and now, suspecting that he might have had the present delivered by one of his henchmen, that maybe it had been _Tyler_—

"If Klaus's been sending you gifts, Caroline, well—that's awfully charming of him," Tyler bites, after a while of just clenching and unclenching his fists. His eyes remain away, still trailing up and down the flight attendant's pencil skirt, like maybe that can numb the rage, keep him well distracted as he assures Caroline—"But I'm not his fucking errand boy. Not anymore."

She can't keep the angry come-back from jumping up her throat. All she can do is lower her voice so the other passengers don't hear, as she hisses, "Well, you just killed my boyfriend because he told you to."

His eyes shoot up, and his head snaps to look her in the eye. He looks furious, angrier than Caroline has seen him in a while, but his voice quivers strangely when he asks, "Bo-boyfriend?"

Caroline crosses her arms over her chest, protectively. "It's a way of speaking," she defends herself. Noah wasn't her boyfriend. Noah wasn't _anyone_. He was just a young fun frat-vampire. He wasn't a threat to anyone, especially not to someone like Klaus. But he is dead now—because Klaus has no regards for lives that aren't of use to him, and Tyler's been compromised. Again.

That's how fucked-up her life continues to be.

"Whatever, Care. I didn't kill Noah because you two were dating, and Klaus didn't tell me to do it. I haven't talked to Klaus since he found me in New York," he explains, sounding absolutely exhausted. He leans back on his seat, his hands unconsciously closing on the armrests. "I killed Noah because I knew he had to die. It's what I had to do to guarantee your safety."

_Bullshit_.

Seriously? Caroline would snap at him and get all snarky and bitchy, if the thought of Tyler being compelled to do Klaus's biding didn't make her want to cry so badly. She can't believe this is where they are standing now, a year and half a later. Tyler's acting irrationally, with no regards of right or wrong, erratically hurting people just because Klaus has made him his toy, _again_. All of this has happened before, and Caroline is terrified to think it will happen again—it will forever keep on happening for as long as Klaus gets his way, which will happen… always.

It's nothing but Tyler's punishment, Caroline is sure. He would rather die than let Klaus control him, so Klaus is letting him live, but keeping him under his compulsion. How can Caroline be sure he's only been compelled to protect her? What other twisted little tricks might Klaus be hiding up his sleeve? It's sick, one way or another. It makes her feel like she's a thing—a _play thing_ to be passed around in some sort of evil little game that goes right over her head. Yes, she understands that people might try to use her to get to Klaus. She understands that he wants to protect her and keep her under wraps, so no one ever finds out the Big Bad Wolf actually fell for this little insignificant girl who is so easy to hurt and break. But understanding doesn't change the fact that it makes her feel like crap—knowing that Tyler is bound to remain by her side no matter his feelings on the matter. Being with her, being her friend—it's only one among the many things he's being forced to do against his will.

Why the hell did Klaus leave if he's going to control every second of every minute of her life? Might as well have found a witch to stop her heart and locked her up in a pine box. So much for, _live your life, Caroline_.

Ugh.

"He'll let you go," she whispers under her breath, after a few minutes of silence. It's a promise, she wants to add. _He will let you go_.

"I told Klaus I didn't need compulsion to protect you with my life, Caroline," Tyler replies, unfazed; his eyes are softer now, more welcoming and familiar when he adds, "I meant that. I wouldn't have let Noah told anyone that his girl—"

His words trail off, and Caroline bites back a flinch. That his girl, what? Had history with the King of their kind? That his girl could get them all front seats to see the Mardi Gras Parades, only a few feet away from Klaus's bloodstained throne? The whole situation was ridiculous and stupid and tragic. Wouldn't it have been a lot easier to just convince Noah that Damon was drunk and delusional and had no idea what he was talking about?

"You wouldn't have killed him," she tells him, voice firm and assured as she desperately tries to make herself believe. Tyler wouldn't have just killed a guy because he might have said something to the wrong person at some point. They would have found another way. They would have fixed it without anyone getting hurt.

But—

Tyler shrugs, and shakes his head. "Maybe not. I might have just scared him—but how long would that have kept him quiet?" He turns to her again, eyes open and sincere. "I _want_ you to be safe, Care. This situation with Klaus… it's a mess, and I hate it more than you can even imagine, but—" his voice drops, "—it's not your fault."

Well—

It kind of is her fault that she went to bed with him.

Yeah—it was her merry band of friends who were too happy to use her as bait time and time again, for months. They saw a weak spot and latched onto it like hyenas, exploited it and, what did they care about the kind of danger Caroline was being exposed to? What's the worst thing that could happen? Klaus didn't seem willing to hurt Caroline—he kept forgiving her every time she tried to play him, smiled a little wider than necessary so he'd get off-track and maybe they could get rid of his siblings or, who knows, maybe even killing him. Desiccate his body, bury him in concrete, throw him to the bottom of the ocean. Yet he didn't seem to mind much. Kept squeezing every little but of time she gave him to try and get her to unwind, _dare_ take a chance on him. He knew it was a game and he still chose to play; he even let her believe, every time, that it was _her_ rules they were playing by.

It was harmless.

None of her friends ever worried that putting her on the spot like that, making her spend time with him, go on dates with him, drink Champagne at their little town's Winter Wonderland—no one ever thought that it might have consequences. No one ever worried, that you can only pretend for so long, before illusion begins to replace reality, and then you can't really distinguish what's real from what's not.

Klaus had fallen for her, will you believe that? For real.

Caroline had fallen too—somewhere deep and dark and right into his evil, evil arms. It was just a bad night, after a bad week, at the end of a real bad streak of luck. She was feeling down, she was alone—it was _harmless_, they all told her, pushing her a little bit closer to him, time and again. _A little blonde distraction_. Have a drink with him. He'll give us his hybrid so we can kill him to save Elena. Go and look at his ugly painting like you actually like it. He won't even notice that his hybrids are disappearing for weeks at a time, to turn a hundred times in the deepest, darkest corner of the Lockwood cellar.

What's the worst thing that can happen?

Well—

It might not be Caroline's fault that Klaus noticed her, picked her, loved her.

But it'd been her choice, misguided yes, but also conscious and deliberate—to go to his house that night. Kiss him. Kiss him _again_ when he pulled away, brows pulled in question. _I can't take this anymore,_ she had whispered and _oh_, it was the truth. She couldn't take it anymore—the wanting and denying and self-hating. The wondering. The longing. The _tension_. She wanted _him_ and she wanted to cross to the other side of the life-changing decision that was pending over her head, and be done with it. Let it be. Let the cards fall where they may, and then she'd deal with it. Fix it somehow.

Oh, but she is _screwed_.

She tightens her fists around handfuls of her red dotted sundress, because she remembers _his_ fists, knotted around a different sundress as he buried his head beneath the soft cotton, tongue flat over her underwear and, damn it, she was still standing, had tried to remain on her feet; still clad in her summer dress as the column in his lobby began to tremble behind her back. Fire and guilt burn down her spine, and biting back a groan she tries leaning her head back on the headrest, looking out to the clouds beneath so her thoughts might be torn away from him.

_Fix it_. She thought breaking whatever it was between them was the right call—let her glue the pieces back together afterwards. But it was deluded. She hadn't fixed anything. He had left town even before she'd had the time to come to terms with what had happened between them, and before she had even realized—he was _gone_—Tyler was back, happy and apparently free; and the guilt was eating her away. Then Rebekah had told them about New Orleans. She had left too, and Caroline—

She and Tyler stopped trying one day, two weeks into the summer break.

Tyler knew. She told him because Caroline isn't a cheater and she isn't a liar if she can help it—and _now_ Tyler tells her, that he'd kill for her. To keep her safe. It's not her fault that Klaus has fallen, after all. It's not her fault that she will become his downfall.

But is it her fault that she doesn't want to see him fall?

(They'll hurt her to hurt him, but _oh—_

—_no_.

She doesn't want them to hurt _him_.)

"Do you know where to find him?"

She decides to talk to Tyler again because she doesn't want to drown in her own thoughts. It's a silly question, in a way. Tyler's already told her that he hasn't talked to Klaus since the day Klaus found him—the day he flied from Richmond to New York and back to Virginia just to tell her goodbye, the taste of her tongue still in his mouth, the way his taste lingered on her. His skin still tingling with the echoes of her fingernails, scratching him raw.

(So she kissed him goodbye.)

"Hayley's with him."

And so the mirage vanishes, with a loud bang thundering inside her head.

Her gasp comes out quiet, weak and suffocated. "Hayley?"

The plane bumps on a rapid variation in the speed or temperature of the wind that holds them up, and Caroline's stomach lurches in perfect synchrony with the turbulence. It's hard to keep a grip on the world around her, from a thousand feet high in the air, but as the aircraft shakes and rattles like a can of tin-plate, Caroline's head spins around. She doesn't know what hits her harder—that Hayley the she-wolf is shacking up with Klaus in New Orleans (because since _when_ are they friends?) or that Tyler's been in touch with her for God knows how long.

Hayley—

_Cabin crew, please be seated._

Hayley had been manipulated by Shane into orchestrating the sacrifice of the hybrids. She was as responsible as Tyler for the coup—and yet, _Hayley's with him_ are Tyler's words exactly. _With him_. Hayley is with Klaus in New Orleans and Tyler knows, because even though Hayley snapped Caroline's neck and staged a sham revolt against Klaus that would certainly end in Tyler's death—the two of them are still in touch. Even though Hayley's lies and manipulation misled Tyler into the worst decision he ever made, the price of which cost him his mother, and a life forever on the run, hiding away from Klaus's wrathful revenge. He had to leave Caroline for it. If New Orleans hadn't happened, if Klaus hadn't found other uses for Tyler—

—he'd be dead by now. Gone.

Caroline can't think about that.

She can't even look at him.

She can't tear her eyes off the clouds because she knows, when she does—

"I know what you're thinking, but…" His voice, heavy with what Caroline hope is shame, stumbles and falls and dies; and _really_, Caroline has to crush the snort, blunt teeth almost tearing the skin off her tongue. How can she think any different?

She muffles the urge to scream into a violent whisper. "She played you. She got your pack killed. She convinced you to try and take down Klaus and all along she was planning to—

"Bonnie tried to kill twelve innocent people," he shoots back, his whisper strangely softer than hers. "Silas made her believe that she could bring Jeremy back. Hayley just wanted to get to know her parents, Caroline. And _I _wanted to set the hybrids free."

Caroline shakes her head and bites her bottom lip so she doesn't start screaming and shouting. So she doesn't cry. _She made you lose everything_, she doesn't say, because what she means is, _she made me lose everything—made _him_ lose everything_. Caroline hadn't wanted to be a part of it. She hadn't wanted to go against Klaus and, at that time—before he killed Carol, before he tried to kill _her_, before he swore to kill Tyler—that was something she could live with. But then, now—what fools they are. Daring to rise in arms against Klaus and hoping that he wouldn't burn their entire world down to ashes in retaliation.

_Hayley's with him_.

It makes no sense.

Hayley is a wolf. She saved Tyler when Tyler needed to be saved. She was with him when they—when _Caroline_, personally, one life for a few hours of pretend charm and genuine fun—handed their friend Chris over, to be killed point blank in exchange for Elena's safety. Hayley only did the same thing: twelve hybrids to barter for her parents. And _hey_, they would be brought back too, when Silas rose. No harm done.

But why—?

"Klaus doesn't do mercy," she murmurs under her breath, the soft words swallowed by the echoes inside her head—_I did it for you, Caroline_. "Why would he let Hayley live? He only gave you a head start."

_Because I asked him_. He allowed Tyler to run, counted to ten before following, murder raging in his heart.

Until he found something more useful to do with Tyler.

"I don't know the details. We don't talk about Klaus. I don't—I don't think she's allowed," Tyler says, gulping down after each word. Carline huffs, blinks at the clouds passing bellow, whiter and softer now that the turbulence has quieted. She still doesn't want to look at Tyler. Doesn't want to see the secrets that he hides; can't allow him to even glimpse the riddles hidden in his fogged gaze. But he keeps on talking even if she refuses to look at him, like it's okay that Klaus has taken it all, because at least he still has Hayley to be his best friend. The one who understands what it's like. The one Caroline used to be. "I guess she found something that Klaus wanted bad enough to trade it for her life," he says, and Caroline be damned, if it doesn't sound like an accusation.

Klaus found something that he wanted bad enough. Like Caroline. Her protection in exchange for Tyler's own life. He gets to life, against all prediction—but from now the only point of his life will be to keep her safe from Klaus's enemies.

Keep her safe _for_ Klaus.

Oh, what twisted wicked game he plays.

_Ladies and gentlemen, as we start our descent, please make sure your seat backs and tray tables are in their full upright position. Make sure your seat belt is securely fastened and all carry-on luggage is stowed underneath the seat in front of you or in the overhead bins._

Caroline sighs, takes in the breath as it burns down all the way to her stomach. "The cure," she barely breathes. "Seems like Hayley was a triple agent. She was working with Katherine all along. Rebekah told Stefan, so—that's why Katherine stole the cure."

Hayley is to blame for that one too, how do you figure? Even if in the long run, the cure ended in Klaus's hands because, really, where else could it ever end? He still had to pay for it—pay the price of relinquishing revenge. Again. For someone who doesn't do mercy, he's been forced to extend a lot of good will towards those who affronted him, and it's gotten him little but one threat to his life wiped clean. Is that worth it? No Silas. No cure to be used against him. But on the other end of the scale—no hybrids, no more doppelganger blood. Tyler gets to live so Caroline isn't harmed. Katherine walks. And no matter where you look, it all seems to lead back to one little insignificant werewolf.

_Cabin crew, please take your seats for __landing._

"Well, I don't know about that," Tyler shrugs, his shoulder bumping into hers as he fastens his seatbelt. By the time he got back to town, Silas was already dead—the cure gone and wasted. If Hayley was involved in that, in bargaining with Klaus with the cure that Tyler had wanted so desperately to pour down his throat—it doesn't seem like he cares much, because he relaxes on his seat and tells Caroline, "I'll call her when we land. She'll tell us where to go."

But Caroline shakes her head, because _no, she won't._ Hayley might not have been compelled, but Caroline is sure Klaus has no trouble covering his bases. They won't find him that easily.

_Ladies and gentlemen, __welcome__ Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport.__ Local time__ is 9:40 a.m., and the __temperature__ is 70 degrees Fahrenheit._

You don't find Klaus.

_On behalf of Spirit Airlines and the entire crew, I'd like to __thank you__ for joining us on this trip and we are looking forward to seeing you on board again in the near future. _

Klaus finds you.

As she stands up on her shaky legs, the loud speakers insist on their kindness,_ Have a nice stay!_—

—and Caroline's heart panders madly, frantically, as the plane rolls onto a slow stop, parking safely at the gate.

.-.

**tbc.**

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**I know. I know. WTF is this, right? It's not that long and it **_**only**_** has Caroline/Tyler in it! I'm so sorry guys, but when I wrote Prom Night I thought it'd be cool to have Klaus compel Tyler to protect Caroline, and now I have to deal with it. But I can promise you, from the next chapter onwards, it will be ALL about KC.**

**You liked? You didn't? Drop me a line or two if you have any comments! I promise future chapters will be a bit more interesting to read than this!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hi guys, here is Chapter 3!**

**Thank you very, very much for reviewing and letting me know what you think of this story, which seemingly wants to grow and grow and grow - and a big part of that is thanks to you guys, because you encourage me to keep writing by being so kind and supportive. Thank you!**

**Enjoy the chapter!**

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**Chapter 3**

**:-:**

He's standing in the middle of the crowd.

They don't find him. _He_ finds them.

In fact, it pretty much seems like he's waiting for them. As soon as their aimless steps find the crowded streets, and the mass of people swallows them—he shows up like an apparition, standing like a ghost only they can see at the other side of the street. He stands tall and majestic amongst the hordes of people, _his_ hordes of people, rustling and bustling around. They can't touch him; maybe they don't even see him. He looks at them, at _her_, like nobody else is around, eyes hard and beautiful and unreadable, and doesn't move a muscle. Doesn't frown or smile or nod or acknowledge them in any way, except by letting his eyes sink in, pierce the tender skin around wounds she didn't knew she had, while he was gone, and not standing a few quick, impatient strides away.

"One of his guys must have warned him," Tyler says by her side, sounding a lot less impressed than she feels by Klaus's apparition. How long have they been in the city? Half an hour? Forty minutes? And there he is—not granting even one second so that she can catch her breath.

She doesn't know if she should smile or glower at him. There's an unfamiliar tightness in her chest, clutching her heart beneath her heaving ribs. Light-headedness clouds her sight before she realizes she's stopped breathing, and she blinks, tries to smudge the mist away. She opens her eyes to find him gone, vanished—and she's ready to call it a hallucination, the vision of his spectre, in spite of Tyler's matter-of-fact words; but then the multitude pushes her forward, makes her trip like a foolish clumsy human over the edge of the curb, and before she can either fall or regain her balance Tyler's hitched her up by the arm, and is pulling her across the street.

"Come on," he urges, pushing his way through the raging, partying mob.

Caroline follows him, lets him pull her through the crowd. Her eyes are still blinking, twitching sort of manically because the sunlight is too bright, too orange down here—and daylight ring or not, she's a creature of the dark. The multitude is loud; an overwhelming gathering of hundreds of heartbeats pulsing rhythmically, drumming in synch with the low, deep vibrating music that seeps out of shops and bars and houses. It's as awe-inspiring as it is dizzying, and by the time Tyler pulls her out of the light, shuffling her through a creaking door into a nearby bar, Caroline's head is spinning madly, her thoughts are muddled, hazy; her eyes are blinded, thick dark curtains falling over a kaleidoscope of bright screaming colours burning in her brain.

It takes a few seconds to adjust her eyes to the change. The bar lights are dim, misty; reddish. Even though it's the middle of the morning, the stink of bourbon rolls over the place like a wave beneath a storm, and crawls up Caroline's throat, bitter like the taste of bile. Her eyes, still tender by the change in the light, roam the room fast and attentive. There are only a few customers, slouched over the counter or sprawled lazily in the two of the only three tables occupied at the back of the bar. In the third table Caroline's curious eyes bump into the hard glare of Elijah, dark and serene and unreadable, revealing only the slightest tint of surprise at seeing her. He's sitting at the table two men, well-dressed and as tense as Elijah looks; but as soon as he sees her, he nods at them immediately with a sharp turn of his head, quickly standing up and walking towards Caroline with firm, confident strides.

She doesn't want to hold Elijah's intimidating gaze, so Caroline turns her eyes to the counter—still searching, still searching, but only half-aware—unprepared for the sight that awaits her there. Halfway along the bar, Tyler's holding Hayley in his arms, her feet off the ground as he presses her against him, so tightly that Caroline is sure that, if she were human, Tyler would have certainly snapped her spine. She can't see Tyler's face, but Hayley's eyes are closed and a huge grin is splitting up her face, like she just reunited with her life-long best friend in the whole wide world. Like it makes any kind of sense to squeeze the life out the guy you sent to the slaughterhouse, two Christmases ago, because you just are _that_ close.

"Caroline…"

Only when she hears Elijah's deep voice, whispering so close to her face, does she realizes that she has in fact balled her fists on her hips, and her knees are slightly bended forward, as if she's getting ready to pounce. Old habits, she figures, turning to Elijah as she gulps down her apprehension.

He extends his arm, showing her the way to the doorway that, right next to the bar, opens the way to a narrow spiral staircase. Barely nodding in acknowledgement, Caroline follows him with slow steps, her attention—even though she knows, she _knows_, where Elijah is leading her to, or rather, _who_ he's leading her to—still partially focused on Tyler and Hayley, now finally untangling when the girl behind the counter, a whirl of blonde curls, swats at Hayley's shoulder, effectively pulling her away from Tyler while simultaneously pointing in Caroline's direction.

She has no trouble hearing the bartender's rattled question. "Who's that?"

Just as she doesn't have any trouble hearing Hayley's detached response, even as she follows Elijah up the darkened staircase, one sweaty hand grasping onto the railing for dear life.

"Oh, no one important." Hayley's voice seeps up the stairs, malicious and deliberate. "She's Klaus's."

Unmindfully Caroline gasps, and it's only fitting, the thoughts running through her head—_she's Klaus's_—when Elijah opens the door at the end of the upside-down rabbit hole. The low, deep, earth-quaking appellative—"Brother,"—shudders through Caroline's system like the sound of a bong, _warning_.

He doesn't bother turning around to look at her.

Elijah disappears under the stairs as soon as Caroline sets foot in the room, breathing shallowly because _this is it_. She's finally here, and for as long as Klaus continues contemplating the decanter in his hand, his back turned to her, Caroline decides to inspect the room as carefully as her current agitated state will allow her. Animal instinct, and all—just in case she has to run. Her only choice, she gathers, is the tall, broad window on her right. It opens to a small balcony and even though, _yes_, crashing through the glass panels will hurt like hell for a short while, she's confident that she can make it to the ground on her feet, and not be deterred in her escape. The bright yellow light seeping through the fine curtains is a stark reminder of the fact that, yes, she can run and jump through a glass window as many times as she may want to, but she's not home anymore. She has no idea what sort of creatures are crouching outside, waiting. She doesn't understand where she is—in a small loft, an office it seems, above a kind of dingy bar that doesn't look like much. There's a worn-out couch and a splintered coffee table, and a dirty counter in front of a liquor cabinet. The furniture looks cheap and old—the place terribly dark in sharp contrast with the bright sunny light coming through the glass doors that open to the balcony outside. It's the last place in the world she'd have expected to find Klaus, yet there he stands. Unmistakable. The only familiar thing in the strange land where she finds herself stranded.

He's pouring the thick, amber liquor in two glasses, taking a whole lifetime each time he moves a muscle. He stands taller than she remembers, like when she saw him out in the street; but dresses the same: worn boots, dark jeans, and a thin, dark-gray Henley shirt. She hasn't seen his face, but her heart is fluttering and her palms are sweating and she wants to cry, when she realizes that she _wants_to see his face again. But he lets the seconds pass them by, and still doesn't turn around, doesn't say a word—only looks at the drinks he's served and breathes in deeply, like he's mentally preparing himself for some arduous task. So Caroline takes the matter into her own hands, because she doesn't enjoy awkward, deafening silences—and she cannot stomach, not one second longer, the memories that fill up the room to take the place of the words that they don't dare say yet.

She asks the first thing that comes to her mind, her voice only trembling slightly. "What is this place?"

His breath hitches, loud, but he conceals the clearly unwanted reaction to the sound of her voice quickly, his knuckles whitening around the tumbler as he finally turns around, his face hard as steel. "What are you doing here?"

It strikes her, when she first thinks of whether it'd be safe, talking _here_, that she can't hear the bustle from downstairs anymore. The mumbling of the patrons, the screeching sounds of chairs being dragged across the wooden floors—the impatient, twitchy conversation between Hayley, and the blond girl tending the bar. Or between Hayley and Tyler which, unsurprisingly, she finds a bit more interesting. But she doesn't hear it—doesn't hear anything. Not even the racket coming up from the streets, which should be loud and annoying and overwhelming, as only a thin panel of glass seems to separate them from the world outside.

_Witches_, she realizes. _There are many powerful witches in the Old South_, he told her once.

There's only silence between them, now; thick, moist, heavy silence. They're alone, and isolated. This meeting in his shabby office above the cheerless bar downstairs is allowing them the privacy that he has clung to so violently and hopelessly—the privacy that she has broken by coming here to his haunted, monsters-crammed city, to see him.

"You have ten seconds, love," he says, when she doesn't reply to his question. _What are you doing here?_ Well, you see—there are so many possible answers to that question. Especially when his voice bends, softer, around the pet name, _love_. He sighs, like maybe he's bored or annoyed that he has to insist. "You have ten seconds before I snap your neck, drain the vervain out of you, and compel you to forget."

_Forget_.

Emotions flow through her veins in a violent rush, so fast that she can distinguish the fear from the anger, the shock from the pull tightening in her stomach that makes her want to laugh it out. _Forget_. He hasn't threatened to force her to go back home, back to Mystic Falls, and compel her to never be back, never reveal to anyone that she actually met the original hybrid, that time he settled for a while in small-town Virginia, before the hordes of vampire fanatics found their way to Whitmore College, allured by the mysticism of their very _mystic_ town.

_Forget_.

It gives her the confidence to rest her hands on her hips, fingers splayed over her hipbones as she raises an eyebrow in challenge. "You won't make me forget you," she defies him, hopefully oozing off an assertiveness that she barely feels once his blue eyes widen to take in her gaze. "You're far too selfish to let me go that easily."

That is, it seems, the heart of the matter.

He says _forget_, because _forget_ is what he can't do. What _they_ can't do. The one single door that has been closed, when the rest of them are open wide, letting all the monsters in.

He concedes her point with a smile, and it's the first, so her heart hitches in her chest. "Okay, let's hope third time's really the charm. What are you doing here, Caroline?"

He offers her the second glass, but she shakes her head. It's not even noon, and this is not a social visit, after all. Alcohol is the last thing she needs, if she wants to keep her head clear and her voice steady. She crosses her arms over her chest, and breathes out. "I'm here because I want you to let Tyler go. Free him of your compulsion," she demands, as firmly as she can while his eyes are digging up holes in her soul, the way they tend to do whenever she allows him to lock her eyes on his.

He doesn't even blink. His relaxed smile fades, but almost imperceptibly. "Isn't that what you wanted, love? As you wished, Tyler will live, and he will remain by your side."

Her hands fists on the back of the couch, nails digging the threadbare upholstery before she can even realize she has moved from the spot where she was standing in the middle of the room. She clenches her teeth, struggles to remain as composed as possible when she hisses, fiercely, "Are you kidding me, Klaus?"

He remains forever unfazed. "Kidding you? Contrarily, sweetheart," he smiles, taking the glass to his lips to take a sip. Only that gesture betrays the darker, more virulent waters surging beneath the calm surface of his imperturbable composure. "You were right. I could see how much you loved _him_, as you said—or rather, how desperately you clung to that foolish belief. And it seems that I am utterly incapable of not granting whatever wishes your heart desires."

She breathes in deeply a couple of times, attempting to calm down before she bursts up in flames. It's her own fault, in a way. She started this when she dismissed his threat, made it disappear with a snap of her fingers, because that's how _not_ afraid she is of him. He's only pushing back because she made him—and look at that, it's been almost a year, but right now if feels like not a single day has passed since the last time they saw each other. Except the last time they saw each other she was plunging her tongue down his throat and he was pushing back just as hard—harder, even; just as he does now.

"Don't play dumb, Klaus," she says, her voice low and firm. "Don't play games."

He might be only trying to poke a jab at her by bringing her love for Tyler onto the table, but didn't he always take pride in his blunt honesty? She won't stand there and keep quiet while he mocks her, taunts her with the horror of his all-encompassing manipulation. The cold blood pumping through his dead black heart. She'd cry and slap him and maybe even kiss him again before she lets him do that, and it must show on her face, because the playful smirk cracks and falls off his lips as he moves to sit on the couch, leaving the glass on the coffee table. If she doesn't want to stand behind him, looking at the top of his head like a fool, she has no option but to sit by his side. He waits for her to join her on the couch, waits for her to lean away as she rests her back on the armrest, hands folded in her lap.

"Tyler is the only _other_ one of my kind, Caroline," he explains, his eyes soft, his voice gentle. It only makes her feel more afraid of what he's going to say next, when he sighs, and adds, "I can't let him stand up against me, first, and turn his back on me, later. I _made_ him. He is _mine_. He will die, or he will remain by my side. And right now, by my side means by _your_ side. He's nearly indestructible and, what's more important, he's _willing_ to die for your safety."

"Then why do you need compulsion? If Tyler's so willing—"

"Because you and I both know that if I hadn't compelled him to protect you, he would have left you already."

The ghosts of his words hover over them, heavy, haunting them seconds after they've both gone quiet. Because he's right, Caroline came to the same realization on the plane. Tyler might want to keep her safe, but for all she knows Klaus has an army of vampire following her trail, and no matter how big a risk she might be at, Tyler is a wolf, and Caroline jumped into bed with Klaus after she said, _until we find a way_. How long can he be her guard dog? He has his own life to live; his own pack to find—and judging by the little spectacle displayed by the wolf bitch downstairs, sooner rather than later his life will take him away from Caroline.

So let it be.

"He killed him, Klaus," she whispers, not looking at him, her eyes darting across the room. "He ran after him and ripped his heart out without a second thought."

"He did that to protect you."

She scoffs, mutters under her breath—"I see my keepers keep you well informed"—because damn _it_, she feels like crying—at last, _now_, over nice, adventurous Noah, who had no idea what he was getting himself into when he offered to buy her a Screwdriver at Halloween, and she showed him a Bloody Mary in return, of the B+ kind. He'd been so impressed, and she had felt good and light for the first time in months, like maybe she could breathe out this time, and have fun and enjoy college and do a bit of careless inconsequential slow-paced casual group-dating, for once. No strings attached. No mortal danger involved.

Noah was _innocent_.

"Caroline…" Klaus leans forward to take the glass to his mouth, gulps down a long swallow, slurping before setting the tumbler back on the table with a loud _thud_. His eyes are darker when he looks back at her, gleaming bright under the blast of yellow light that hits his face when he turns towards her. "No one can know who you are."

"And who am I?" she asks, her voice tiny and suffocated, trapped pitifully in the knot of her throat. _Who is she?_

"You are my…" His words trail off, and he bites his bottom lip and his eyes close momentarily, escaping from her hold. She watches his Adam's apple bob up and down the column of his throat as he swallows, and breathes, and it's such an enchanting sight that she is completely unprepared for his relentless, steel-clad gaze when he opens up his eyes again. "I won't let anyone hurt you, Caroline."

_No one important_, Hayley had told the pretty bartender when she asked, so restlessly curious, who Caroline was. _She's Klaus's._

Her breath hitches loudly, somewhere deep between a gasp and a sob. _I won't let anyone hurt you_. She shakes her head furiously, frantically, closing her eyes and forcing the bitter, treacherous tears to stay inside, to go back down the steep road of her throat. Swallow them before they fall, and he can _see_, how lost she is, that she needed to come here of all places, searching her own tail. She doesn't want to beg him, but her head still falls, her fingers gripping the edge of the couch so tightly that she feels it tear as she rips apart the cushion she is sitting on. She starts sobbing, dry and painful. "There has to be another way," she whimpers. "There has to be another way."

"Hey, hey," he calls, soft and warm, his hand immediately cupping her face and tilting her head upwards so she doesn't hide her eyes away. "Caroline, love, there's no reason to be so distressed. It's a shame that Noah had to die, but you have to understand. If the word gets out," he pauses, nodding meaningfully, obviously expecting her to agree and nod with him. _If the word gets out that the evil king of the underworld has found his own Persephone to abduct until she surrenders her love to him_. She remains impassive, forces herself to remain impassive, and so he adds, sounding resigned and a little bit defeated. "I don't know how he found out, but I'll instruct my men that, if it happens again, they must not kill anyone who hasn't deliberately tried to harm you. If someone finds out, they'll bring him to me, and I'll compel them to forget." His fingers trail the line of her jaw, and she shivers, all of a sudden regretting that she didn't accept the drink he offered. She refuses to look away, but doesn't react in any way when he promises, "It won't happen again."

It'd be so easy to believe him, call this talk a victory, and turn away from him and his newly-found good intentions.

But there's a question trapped inside her head, and it was there long before Noah, long before she know that Klaus had compelled Tyler to remain by her side and protect her with his life. She had thought about it endlessly since the night that they said goodbye—

—so she asks, her voice the faintest of whispers. "How long?"

He never said, but made it obvious that he would wait for her, for as long as she needed. To come to him. But it's barely been a year, and here she is. She has already come to him.

"How long _what_, love?"

"How long am I supposed to go on pretending that I'm actually living my life when in fact I'm only allowed an hour out in the prison courtyard every day?" Sorrow and self-doubt quickly take the form of anger once the words are out. Her voice raises, sharper the tighter the grip of his hand around her jaw. "How long am I supposed to go about my day like I'm just a normal vamp girl, like I don't have a bunch of creepy strangers following me around, watching my every move?"

The intensity of his gaze sharpens with her anger. He doesn't pull away; in fact, his hand draws her closer, closer and closer as he leans forward till their faces are only inches apart. As a distraction technique is quite effective, because regardless of how upset she is, how more and more distraught she grows the more she thinks about the incredibly messed-up situation they've found themselves in—all it takes is the lustful pull of his deep blue eyes for her to get lost somewhere in a dark, stormy mixture of memory and desire. The thought assaults her unannounced, and she can't do anything to stop it. She knows, she can almost _see_, how it wouldn't take him one single breath to have her screaming out his name, right here io this very old couch, in this dirty strange office he keeps over a bar among so many others halfway down in Bourbon Street. In a flash, his hands would crawl up the skirt of her dress, and in less than one second, he could hitch her leg over his shoulder and bite off her panties, or he could deftly rip them apart and bury himself inside her with one single gulp of air.

Would she let him? Take her back in time in the flesh, and not only in her thoughts?

"Do you want the secrecy to stop, Caroline? Do you want to walk free?" His voice is warm, moist, the offer kind and gentle as it brushes over her half-open lips. It pulls her to nod, _yes_, because imagine that. Caroline walks free, and for a short while at least she gets to make it as if it never was—this dark twisted little turn of fate that awaited her when it turned out, she was best friends with a Petrova doppelganger.

But then he speaks again, the yellow light glimmering in his eyes with a dangerous, familiar wolfish hue. "Then you will have to stay here with me, love."

—

**.tbc**

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**Thank you so much for reading! I hope that you liked it - please let me know if there's something you'd like to comment on in a review.**

**Next: Klaus's elaborates on his proposal, Caroline reacts in a multitude of ways, and... is that Rebekah that will enter the story?**


	4. Chapter 4

__**Hello guys! Here is chapter 4, which I hope will help soften the blow ;) As always, thank you so much for reading this story, following it, favoriting it and, especially, talking to me about it through your reviews. You are amazing, and you keep me enthusiastic about writing, so thank you!**

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**Chapter 4**

**.-.**

_Then you will have to stay here with me, love._

The silence that follows his words falls upon her hefty as a headstone. She's lost, one gulp of salt water away from drowning in the deep blue-green of his eyes. She'd tremble in something akin to fear, if she couldn't still feel the burn of the vervain rasping the back of her throat. He can't compel her; he's not saying, _you will stay here with me_. And yet the pull feels as strong as she remembers it. Compulsion. It would be so simple: pass onto him the responsibility for her own actions, her own choices, her own mistakes. Let him pull the plug, and hope that maybe it'll get easier to breathe when she's no longer in control.

His hand falls from her face, and when he pulls back, the frame widens enough that she can see beyond the abyss of his eyes. He's smiling, triumphantly and overconfident, and it's the devious glint in his eyes that makes his smirk so infectious that she finds herself rolling her eyes at him.

"Are those my options? To be your prisoner here, or back home? Because if that's what you're so kindly offering, then—"

"Caroline," he interrupts her, the smile hardening, flaking as if painted on a plastered wall. "Let's not waste our pointless breath by swapping recriminations and empty accusations, shall we?" His eyes grab hers again, but this time, their glint is dimmer, less patient. You know what you mean... to me, and—" he clears his throat, "—you know that, as soon as certain people find out, they will try to harm you to get to me."

She nods, still holding his gaze in hers; he's right. She basically begged him to please, find another way to keep her safe that did not involve an army of vampires following her every step, and compelling her ex-boyfriend so he'd be happy to mindlessly murder whoever might find out, even on accident, that she knows the King, and the King knows her.

"So our options are limited, love," he continues, his voice calm as he leans on the backrest of the couch, his eyes at last darting away. His brows wrinkle when he picks up the almost-empty glass again, and he sighs. "I'm no expert in this sort of matter, but I was never under the impression that it'd be easy, or without consequence. It always comes with a high price, it seems to me."

_Love_, he means.

Caroline's heart clenches, and she flinches, looking down to her lap and feeling glad that he doesn't seem to want to look at her, either. She exhales, "I can't stay with you."

She thought she'd say, _I don't want to stay with you_; but she doesn't say that. Perhaps there is a reason why—how terrified she is that she'll say the words and catch herself in a terrible lie she isn't yet ready to come to terms with.

"Why not?" he asks, and go figure, he sounds actually _curious_. His head snaps up to look at her, eyes squinting when she returns his intent gaze. "Please tell me, love, because I do not understand. What is it that binds you so inextricably to that miserable town anymore? Do you have _any_ idea of how thrilling your life could be in a city like this?"

In a movie, his words would have been marked by the cries of the loud, racketing multitude outside. A confirmation of the _life_ that rushes through the city streets like the blood pumps through their veins, searing and violent. But the witches have kept the place well protected, and the silence pervades, invades, and occupies every corner of the room. The light filters into the shabby room though, unnatural; so bright it almost blinds her. She closes her eyes on pure instincts, breathing raggedly. In the magical silence that surrounds them, the impatient tapping of her fingers on the couch drums like a thundering storm as she struggles to come with an answer that doesn't make her sound ditzy and stupid. She fails, opens her eyes, and quickly grows tired of enduring his unremitting glare, so she offers a lame protest instead. She even shrugs, "I have classes, you know? I love college."

"So? You can transfer to a much better university here, I'm sure," he replies, nursing his tumbler nonchalant, only drinking in small sips. "Camille will help you—she's a graduate at Tulane. Her guidance and a just a pinch of compulsion got Rebekah successfully enrolled in no time."

"Who's Camille?" _Yes_, she could have focused on the fact that Klaus is suggesting she goes to university with _Rebekah_ of all people, which is both terrifying and profoundly disconcerting; but also, _Tulane_. That is a lot damn cooler than Whitmore College, with or without Rebekah,, and really? Caroline's got enough on her plate what with battling _other kinds_ of temptation right now, so she won't go and start daydreaming about compelling her way into a private, prestigious university just yet. _Camille_… Well, she doesn't know who Camille is, that Klaus is so confident will help Caroline settle in—so that seems like a safe train to get aboard, until Klaus waves his hand dismissively—

"Oh, she tends the bar, she's a sweetheart. She's working on her PhD, anthropology, I think," his brow furrows slightly, like he genuinely doesn't remember, or cares much about remembering. "Anyway, she'll help you if you decide to stay, and you can join a sorority with Rebekah—she's looking into those, apparently. Maybe you can help her focus a bit, it's all fun and no work, my sister. Says she wants to major in Medieval and Early Modern Studies, but let me tell you—"

"Because she's a troll," Caroline snorts, eyes rolling into the back of her head. She does remember Rebekah mentioning that history was her favourite subject on her first day at school, that day she threatened to steal Caroline's life away from her, starting with her position as head of the cheerleading squad, and finishing with her boyfriend, Tyler. Oh, what a lovely girl Rebekah is. Caroline can't wait to be best friends with her. She also can't wait to see her, grinning oh so smugly when she sees Caroline, because she's so smart, really. The last words Rebekah said to her before she left Mystic Falls haunt her now at every turn, mocking her. _See you soon, Caroline_.

And here she is.

"A troll?" Klaus frowns, standing up to grab the decanter and the second class left forgotten on the counter in front of the liquor cabinet.

"Yessss," Caroline assures to his back, leaning back on the couch and getting ready to accept the drink this time around. "I bet she goes to class just to troll, because, you know, she was there in the Middle Ages?"

Klaus is stilling frowning in confusion when he turns around, moving back to the couch to sit by her side, a tiny bit farther away than he was before. "I don't believe Rebekah's classmates know her real age," he chuckles, cracking an easy smile.

It's render immediately moot, his atypically selfless show of kindness in allowing her the space to breathe by sitting farther away from her; because when he hands her the glass, their fingers brush and he, being the asshole that he is, doesn't let the moment pass, in case it vanishes and disappears, leaving no echo behind. His fingers trap hers against the icy cold glass, and wait for the shiver to race up the skin of her wrist and spread along her arm, languidly, until it brushes up against the bone marrow of her spine, and she shudders, ice-cold fire rushing through her veins as she gives him the evilest eye she can ever evil up. She wishes she had a witty comeback ready, something malicious to say about Rebekah, or something cold and heartless about why staying with him in this vibrant, terrible city is the last thing she'll ever want to do.

But there's nothing she can say when his smile deepens, and his angelic dimples flare with the malevolent wickedness of a thousand devils. "So what do you study, love? Whatever it is, I'm sure Tulane has a much better programme than Whitmore."

She bites her tongue to crush her answer down the chute of her throat, but when she tastes blood she realizes, that only lying will make it into a bigger deal than it is, and playing unaffected and nonchalant might be the one card that remains hidden up her sleeve. So she smiles sweetly at him, the way she used to do when she was playing the part of decoy in the many wretched schemes they cooked up to end his life. "Art history," she says, "mostly."

His eyebrows shoot up, and he grins like he's so happy, that Caroline contemplates the thought of shattering her tumbler on his head. Just to spite him. But then his big kind-of-derisive smile softens, grows warmer, and his voice drops like in a memory. "Well, sweetheart. If during the summer break, there is any museum or city in the world that you would like to visit, for academic purposes of course—" he mock-clarifies, all haughty and prim, "—it'd be my pleasure to be your tourist guide."

His _pleasure_. For _academic_ purposes.

Ugh, she wants to slap him so badly for making her bite back the traitorous, rebellious laugh bubbling up her throat.

She will not fall for it.

He's bringing out all the big guns, but she will not let herself be charmed into this. No way. She knows this Klaus—the cute, dimpled charming goof that will detour his master-powers for evil so that he can use his wide array of supernatural abilities to steal away her Miss Mystic Falls application, just to thieve a laugh out of her. She _likes_ this Klaus—who wouldn't? But if he wants her to even think about staying with him, taking a chance on him, as he said that time outside the Mystic Grill, then he's going to have to drop the pretence, and fast. She's seen behind the pretty cover already—has flicked through some of the darkest pages. But she isn't a fool—if she stays now, there are chances that he might never let her walk away, and if he wishes to convince her to _want_ to be with him, even if it's forever—charming, playful, silver-mouthed tour guide Klaus isn't going to cut the deal.

It's the B-side of his soul that will have to make her stay.

So she grows serious, lets a few drops of sadness paint up her face, and looks him in the eye. "You asked me what is it that keeps me tied to Mystic Falls, still," she sighs, smiling sullenly. "I know that I may live forever, but my mom won't. Bonnie, Matt… I don't want to miss out on the one thing I will never have again. My family, my friends, my home…"

He holds her gaze so gently that you would never believe he's such a bad, bad monster. "Your humanity?"

She doesn't need to nod, only sighs as she closes her eyes and leans back deeper on the couch, her face turned away. There's a whole world out there, she knows; but the world will still be out there fifty, one hundred years from now. Her mother won't. Bonnie, Matt, her childhood friends… the remnants of the life Caroline Forbes lived before she died and became something else other than _living_. What is the point of existing forever, if she still fades away, and her loved ones move on without her? What is the point of an eternal life if your friends and family will still lose you, mourn you, forget you—as they live on?

"Caroline…"

Not looking up at him, she shakes her head as if just by strength of will she can stop him from saying what he is going to say—what she _knows_ that he has to say.

"Caroline, love." His voice is low and tender, and when he shuffles closer, the couch shifts, tilts, pulls her inexorably closer as well. "You know you _will_ have to leave eventually, don't you? How long now before someone notices that you don't look a day older than seventeen?"

"No," she protests, her eyes finding his, clinging hopelessly. She doesn't whimper this time. She doesn't sob. Isn't she done pretending she feels sorry for herself. "Not yet. It's too soon. I'm only _nineteen_, and I—"

"It's not too soon, sweetheart. You're ready." His hand crawls on top of hers on the couch, and that is such a low blow, such a jackass move, that it pulls Caroline out of her trance. She pulls her hand away and folds it on her lap, but her rehearsed, artificial body language doesn't deter him. "Your friends can visit you whenever they want and, with adequate protection, you can go and visit them. Bring Bonnie here with you, a Bennett witch is always welcome, and I'm sure a feisty powerful witch like her would thrive with all the witchcraft and sorcery that flows through the sewers of this city."

"Wow, Klaus," she sasses up, suddenly angry when she feels her own arms unmindfully wrapping around herself, protectively. "You're the nicest watchdog _ever_."

"Caroline…" His voice hardens, warning her of an incoming threat.

So she balls her hands on her hips, standing up and leaving the untouched glass on the coffee table before walking towards the window. She's hoping that maybe the fierce midday light will blind her enough that she won't have to see his stupid, ridiculous face anymore. She still turns towards him when she asks, eyes narrowed in sudden, quick, unrepressed fury. "You really think you can manipulate me into being okay with you _kidnapping_ me? Is that your big move? Stockholm Syndrome?"

He lays his glass on the table as well, but not before pouring the content down his throat, closing his eyes and smacking his lips as if trying to conjure up the insurmountable amounts of patience needed to deal with her. "Don't be so childish, Caroline. You don't want my men following you, keeping you safe on my command, so I'm offering an alternative. If you'd prefer it, I could still snap your neck, drain you, and compel you. Or we can keep on talking this over until the vervain washes off."

_Childish_? Don't be so _childish_? Well, don't be such a freaking cradle-robber.

She scoffs. "You'd compel me? To what? Forget?"

Forget he ever loved her. Forget she ever cared. Forget how bad she wanted him. Forget the taste of his tongue, of his skin, of his blood. Forget the things he promised, and the things she desired in return. Forget everything but the lingering name out of a legend, _Klaus_, the king of all bad guys who came to their little town to murder her best friend and break a curse and kidnap Stefan and fabricate an army of hybrids and reunite his creepy evil family. Of all this plans he only succeeded in breaking the curse, so defeated he left town with his trident-shaped tail between his legs.

The rest of it never happened.

A wave of nausea rises from her stomach, and Caroline feels dizzy as blood pumps painfully in her temples. _No_, she screams, in silence. _No_. He wouldn't make her forget. He wouldn't be able to. She knows. But what she doesn't know—

"You wouldn't make me forget," she whispers across the room.

He leans back on the armrest of the couch, as if getting comfortable. "I'd make you remember… with time." The smile doesn't falter, and Caroline can't help but think of Stefan. Klaus made sure to find him again; make him remember. He sounds certain as death when he adds, low and almost seductive. "I am willing to wait until you're ready, if I must."

Ready for what?

"If you make me forget, I'll hate you," she retorts without thinking.

_I'll hate you_. Meaning, _I don't hate you now. I don't want to hate you. I don't want to forget you._

His smile creeps eerily up his face, beautiful and terrifying. He speaks so slowly, as he says: "So be it."

Her lungs tighten painfully, and she gasps, all air choked out of her chest by the impact of the blow. _So be it_. She may not want to hate him, but for him, her hate would come as a relief. Shaking her head, puzzled and hurt, she frowns, lets her clenched fists fall limp by her hips as, without notice, she walks closer to the couch again—closer to him. "Why?" she asks, the thinnest thread of voice barely struggling its way out of her knotted throat. "Why are you so determined to make me hate you?"

She's expecting him to react in anger. She's expecting rocklike eyes and clenched teeth. She's expecting him to glower, to look away and hide his eyes before they well up with unshed, unwanted tears. This talking they sometimes do around his loving her—it tends to go like that. But instead, this time, the corners of his smile sharpen as needles, and he pats the couch next to him so she goes and sits with him. She's so baffled that she does so—resistance is futile, she knows, and she's got to at least learn how to pick her battles.

"Well, love," he answers at last, leaning over to pick the decanter and refill his glass for the third time since Caroline entered the room. It's not like he's going to get cancer anyway, so he can indulge as much as he likes. "I actually have two answers to that question."

_Why are you so determined to make me hate you?_

"The truth is, Caroline, you hating me would make this whole endeavour remarkably easier than it is now," he explains, so calmly, like one would explain to a child that two plus two equals four. Apparently undeniable. "I wouldn't care then that enforcing your safety may result in some hard feelings on your part. I'm a selfish man, love, and since the night I let you sneak out on me almost a year ago, I've been trying to come up with ways I could convince you to get back in my bed."

(…)

No, seriously.

(…)

Can someone laugh and cry at the same time without appearing to be completely hysterical? For heavens' sake, what is _wrong_ with him? How even dares he—?

"But then, sometimes I think—and this would be the second answer to your question," he continues, still smiling, still looking impossibly relaxed and composed, like he didn't just tell her with so many words that he's basically plotting to get her off her clothes, "—that it doesn't matter much that you hate me now, as I do have forever to make it up to you."

His eyes jump up to snatch hers away, and when they do, the echo of his words—_make it up to you_—sounds even dirtier than _get back in my bed._ A quick ball of heat coils in her belly, pulling tight, and as she gulps down the bump in the back of her throat, she feels her head begin to spin madly. She doesn't understand—not five seconds ago she was angry, and sad; nauseous with the thought of forgetting him, and furious that he would condescend her, try to manipulate her into leaving her friends and her mother behind, to be with him because it was what _he_ wanted. He had tried to charm her first, sell her the idea of a marvellous city throbbing with life and wonder later; then he had the nerve to say that he would _allow_ her to visit her friends, under his watchful eye—and acted like it was the greatest kindness seen in this world.

_It doesn't matter much if you hate me now_.

But how can she hate him when he looks at her with such bright, wanting, kindled eyes? She can't think of anything but his hands, gripping her flesh, tearing her open until she bleeds out every last drop of the dark, terrible love that she can feel coming, crawling from her toes, sinking into the stony kernel of her heart. She can feel her soul hardening in response, and she straightens her back, and tries to pull her gaze back from the unrelenting hold his lewd, loving eyes have on hers as she implores, her voice hard as a rock—

"Don't compel me." She doesn't beg him, but her cold dead tone carries the urgency of her plea just as effectively. "Find another way."

He nods, one finger circling the rim of his glass. The flirtatious grin melts into a more stern expression, but the smile doesn't completely fall off his eyes. "I don't want to compel you," he says, so resolved and honest that each bone in her body trembles, half afraid and half delighted. "I don't want you to forget," he adds, one breath later, his voice a whisper. "And I don't want you to go."

No charm. No threats. No manipulations.

At last.

If he's going to make her stay, he's going to have to ask. She's going to have to see him—the _real_ him—and want him. All of him, and not just the good parts that, when they love her, she enjoys it. She will have to see and love the parts that bite, too—the parts that will hurt and make her bleed.

But she's not ready—

"What about you stay for the festivities?" he suggests, his face lightening up like a freaking Christmas tree. "_Mardi Gras_, Caroline, is such a magical celebration. _Laissez les bons temps rouler_, love."

The French rolls sinfully off his tongue, _Mardi Gras_ followed by the stroke of her name across the roof of his mouth, and just like that she flushes like a school girl. She wants to bite down her bottom lip, swallow down a suffocated moan, and roll her eyes at him at the same time. She struggles not to look away like a fool, and wrinkles her brow, bemused. "Like a deal? I stay with you for a week and you let Tyler go and take down a notch the creepy stalking factor?"

He actually laughs, loud and light—and it sounds so _good_ Caroline is half sure that he is actually laughing in French. Wouldn't put it past him, really. But then he speaks, and the spell is broken. "Of course not, sweetheart. You stay for a week, enjoy the city life at its fullest and most licentious, and after Ash Wednesday, when we must face the self-denial of Lent and it's time for almsgiving and repentance, we will talk."

She raises an eyebrow, because holy cracker is Klaus negotiating? Figures he has a fondness for the elaborate rituals of Catholicism, like he isn't the Devil in the flesh. "About letting Tyler go?" she insists, as pushy as she will forever be. "How's that for giving alms?"

"You are one persistent woman, aren't you?" He's still smiling, deep eyes gleaming beneath the stream of glowing yellow sunlight that seeps through the curtains, seemingly as everlasting as Caroline's determination. "No more talk of what happens after _Mardi Gras_, then. The whole point of it is that, after a week of indulging in the most thrilling, raucous pleasures of the flesh, Caroline—after you see into the _soul_ of a place as magical as New Orleans—you will feel so alive here, that you will never want to leave."

There's something, a deep low unseen hue in the way his tongue curls around the words, _thrilling, raucous pleasures of the flesh_, that makes it sound like, rather than dancing and drinking and seeing the parades, he's propositioning a whole week of fucking. And it is deeply unnerving, the bright, bouncy smile that thought draws across her face.

"People will see me with you," she says, _finally_ taking the glass to her lips and gulping down a mouthful. _Scotch_. It figures—he might be the King of New Orleans, his throne sitting high halfway down Bourbon Street, but that doesn't make him anything other than the snobbish British aristocrat that he is, deep down to his core.

It makes Caroline tingle in _all_ the right places.

He mirrors her movement, leaning closer as he too sits up straighter to finish his drink. "They'll think you're a tourist I picked out of the crowd."

"Nice," she chuckles, as the fumes of the hard liquor steam up from her sore, hungry stomach. It growls, but far from feeling self-conscious, the hunger only sharpens her smile. "But people already saw me downstairs. They know your brother knows me."

"Don't worry about the people downstairs, love," he smirks, so smug, so satisfied with himself. "They're just a few associates I can easily spare if they overstep their boundaries. And the patrons… they're just sad human drunkards. Most creatures of the dark only come out to play at night."

She nods, her thought returning anxiously, despite his words, to the scene she barely glimpsed at the bar before Elijah led her up the stairs. She can't keep her voice from hardening when she asks, "Is that who Hayley is? An associate you can easily spare?"

She's aware that she sounds more wounded than she should feel—but of all the pieces she has seen from the puzzle that is the life he is building in this place, Hayley is the most jarring one. She took his hybrids away. She set up in motion the crime he refuses to absolve Tyler for. And she walks, like one of _his_ people—like she belongs seamlessly into his world. There's more than meets the eye, and it's shining crystal clear in the small widening of his eyes, the way his jaw falls open only slightly, but no words come out until he lets out a long, deep sigh. Kuddos to him for not avoiding her eyes when he admits, his voice a little raspier than she would have appreciated, "Hayley is loyal to me, Caroline, and her loyalty is not something I bought or compelled or sired."

Immediately her mouth circles a perfect _o_ in protest, brows arched tightly. _What?_ How can Hayley be loyal to Klaus? Why? It might be twisted and slightly disturbing and a tiny bit infuriating but deep down Caroline knows that Hayley cares for Tyler, and, even if she didn't—since when is _loyalty_ a defining character feature of Hayley? The one thing they know about her is that she double-crossed Shane and triple-crossed Tyler to get the cure for Katherine and _now_ Klaus claims her loyalty to him is genuine—

Caroline's ready to blast out each and every conflicting, confusing thought running through her head, when suddenly a loud _knock knock_ on the door startles her. Before she can react, the doorknob turns and the door opens just a crack, enough so a high-pitched voice can seep in through the blocking spell.

"Nik? Are you decent? Can I come in?"

Rebekah's unmistakably annoying voice enters the room, filling up the enchanted silence and vanishing out the spell.

Caroline groans out loud; for a second, she forgets all about Hayley and Tyler and Klaus and whatever wolfish twisted little thing they have going on that she doesn't understand. Klaus's sneering arrogantly again, lounged back on the couch, his eyes armour-clad and holding securely onto Caroline's.

He chortles, "Come in, sister—"

—and just like that, Rebekah's face appears through the door crack, the big smile that splits up her face revealing a deep, malicious amusement that she has no business feeling.

"Caroline," she grins, evilly. "I am _so_ glad to see you finally joined us."

**—**

**tbc.**

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**Thanks for reading guys!**

**I know - nothing happens, moves too slow, 8k conversations... luckily the next few chapters will see more action as Caroline gets to know New Orleans, Mardi Gras, and the new people in Klaus's life. ;) Drop me a line if you got any comments!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Hello again, guys! Here is the next chapter.**

**As you might have guessed from the updating rate I'm going at, I feel really inspired and excited about this story. A big part of that is thanks to you guys, who are reading and following and favoriting and leaving me reviews. So really, thank you, _so much_, you have no idea.**

**I hope you will enjoy this chapter. There's quite a long author's note at the end answering some of your questions and explaining a few things.**

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**Chapter 5**

**.-.**

Klaus's smug grin hardens as soon as Rebekah steps into the room, his jaw clenching as he hisses, "_Discretion_, Rebekah."

"Oh, come on," she rolls her eyes at her brother, holding up her phone as soon as she's closed the door. "It's only your girls and the usual wallies downstairs."

_His girls_. There were only two girls at the bar, that Caroline saw. Hayley and the bartender who was so curious to know who Caroline was. Camille. _Klaus's girls_, Rebekah says, the detachment in her voice not entirely a sign that she isn't just trying to rile up Caroline. She wants to snort derisively, roll her eyes at her, but in truth, mention of _Klaus's girls_ or not,it's hard to worry much about whether Rebekah might be toying with her or not, when the phone that she's pointing towards them is taking up most of Caroline's attention.

"What—?"

"She's safe and sound, Stefan," Rebekah interrupts her question, eyes locked on hers while she speaks to the phone, unnecessarily set in speaker mode. "Drinking hard liquor before noon, though. Seems like my brother is determined to get on with his mission of corrupting your precious saintly best friend without letting a second go to waste."

Klaus _tasks tasks_, seemingly one part annoyed and nine parts bored with Rebekah's gimmicks and, honestly? The sentiment comes as an unexpected comfort for Caroline. "Rebekah," he warns her, his voice dry as he eyes the phone with an eyebrow arched high. "What are you doing?"

She barely shrugs in response, letting the phone on the counter and leaning on her elbows next to it. "Elijah said Caroline was here. I was worried, so I called Stefan to ask him if something had happened." She turns to Caroline then, and the malicious glint in her eyes melts quickly, morphing into a small, almost kind smile. "I'm sorry about your boyfriend, by the way."

Caroline's grateful for Rebekah's sympathies, but she still flinches, her eyes squeezing shut. _Boyfriend_. Caroline wishes she was still naïve enough to believe the choice of word is simply unfortunate, and not a deliberate jab at her brother, simply for the sake of sibling belligerence.

"You were curious, you mean," Klaus snarls, his tone lowering further as his voice hardens even more, "being the little noisy brat that you are."

"Don't fret, Nik," Rebekah snorts. "Honestly, I thought you'd be in a better mood now that your dearest—"

"Caroline…"

The echoing, remote sound of Stefan's slightly muffled voice coming out the phone and interrupting Rebekah's sneering reply to his brother quiets the emerging battle immediately. Three pairs of eyes quickly turn towards the counter, where the phone speaks to them with a rather disquieting calmness.

"… everything alright?"

Caroline nods foolishly, as if expecting that he may see her gesture thanks to the magic of technology. It takes her a couple extra seconds to beging talking, "Yeah, I'm—

"She's staying for the festivities," Klaus cuts her off, voice clear, firm, dictatorial. It earns him a narrowed glare and an irritated huff, but he dismisses her unvoinced protests with a wide, dangerously-looking grin. "Here's an idea, mate." He raises his voice even louder, but loses the despotic tone, quickly replacing it with an overenthusiastic higher timbre. "Why don't you come stay with us? There's plenty of room, and I'm sure that Caroline will enjoy having you here."

She doesn't want to smile up at Klaus, grateful. She doesn't want to look too hopeful, too excited. He's throwing a bone at her; he's maybe only getting her comfortable and relaxed enough that she will lower her guard. Then, he'll pounce. She knows it's coming, and she won't let him believe he's fooling her for a second. If he holds the upper hand, fine; but he doesn't have to be one hundred percent certain of the fact that she's at his mercy, every second that goes by. He might be the gentlest, most charming, kindest jailer ever, but Caroline's been abducted, taken and tortured far too many times for Stockholm syndrome to be a kink of hers.

"Care…?"

Once again Stefan's ghostly voice pulls her out of her thoughts. He's asking her, unsurprisingly. Does she want him to come and be with her while she tries to figure out things with Klaus? Will he be intruding, peeking at a part of her she'd rather he didn't have to see? Caroline wants to reassure him that _no_, it's fine, a friendly face is what she needs right now—but again Klaus interrupts her.

"Come on, mate. When's the last time you had a good time, huh? I'm sure not after I left town, am I right?" He grins widely, wickedly, taking full advantage of the fact that Stefan can't see the fiendish intentions gleaming sinfully in his eyes. "If you could see my sister's hopeful face right now, Stefan, you'd be persuaded to speed up your way to the nearest airport with no further encouragement, just out of the sheer kindness of your heart. I tell you, mate, can't you hear the desperation in her shallow breathing?"

This time, Caroline chuckles. She's not the biggest fan of Stefan and Rebekah's weird on-and-off , no-strings-attached, but-I-loved-you-in-the-twenties relationship, as, she is sure, it's only a matter of time before Stefan's strange fondness for the original sister will detour him off tracks, and, as her sober coach, Caroline can't allow that to happen. But right now, when Klaus's using his sister's feelings for Stefan to get back at her? Caroline's eyes find Rebekah's, and she offers her best shot at a pressed, evil smile. _Payback's a bitch, isn't it?_

Sadly, Rebekah is hardly impressed by her brother's attempts at ridiculing her in return for her mocking of him and Caroline. Taking Caroline by surprise—even though she will never say it out loud—Rebekah's eyes soften, and her smile shines warmly when she leans closer to the phone over the counter. "Yes, Stefan," she agrees, speaking each word deliberately, carefully. "It will be just like old times."

With a bright, sudden laugh, Klaus stands from the couch to stand next to his sister by the counter. He too leans closer to the phone as he lowers his voice. "Remember Chicago, mate?"

Stefan's low laugh bubbles out of the phone, quickly spreading across the room, thick and tangible as if he was there with them. "Well, if it's going to be anything like Chicago, I have to go," he chuckles, softly. "If only to make sure someone is watching over Caroline's virtue."

Her eyes widen to the point where she can feel them about to pop out of their sockets. Is Stefan teasing her, too? Her _virtue_? Oh, God. She _so_ doesn't want to know the details of whatever depravities went on in Chicago. _You would have love the nineteen-twenties, Caroline_. She bites back a groan, shivering in remembrance when Klaus's eyes bump into hers, and he holds her slightly dazed gaze in his, almost as irresistibly as he did that night, while he held her so close, his arm moulded to the small of her back. _Girls were reckless. Sexy. Fun. They literally used to dance until they dropped_.

"This is the first Mardi Gras since my family's return to New Orleans," he says, so low, almost in a whisper. His words now echo over the words he speaks in her memory. _Perhaps one day. In a year or even in a century_. His eyes don't leave hers for a moment, as he leavens back on the counter, speaking to the phone as he looks only at Caroline. "It's going to be much, _much_ more magical than Chicago ever was."

There's a pause, then. A moment of moist, heavy silence settling slowly over them. They're staring into each other's eyes and, as they do, Klaus's persuasive words to Stefan slowly transform into a promise for Caroline. It will be _magical_. She is with him, this time. And he is going to make her enjoy every _second_ of it.

The groan she has to bite back this time is of a different kind, and as she shallows it, it turns into a suffocated whimper that she crushes with her tongue against the roof her mouth. It does nothing to release the tension making the muscle of her back ripple, and it's not until Rebekah's loud, pained grunt cuts through the haze in her head, that she's finally pulled out of her desire-induced trance.

"Please, Stefan, I _beg_ you. Get on a plane _now_ and get here. They're making sex eyes at each other, and it's so freaking _disgusting_."

Caroline doesn't even have time to react before Klaus's has snatched the phone from the counter, granting his endlessly annoying sister one quick eye-roll before turning off the speakerphone and taking it to his ear. "We'll be expecting you for dinner, mate," he quickly says, tapping _End Call_ before Rebekah can say another word. Immediately, he shoves the phone in her hand, one eyebrow raised. "Is Elijah still downstairs?"

Rebekah nods. Caroline can tell she wants to pout and be angry that her brother ended _her_ phone conversation with Stefan, because that's simply rude, and if there's one thing Caroline knows about their crazy-ass family, is that they have the lowest tolerance for bad manners. But also, Rebekah can't really be angry at Klaus. It was his idea to invite Stefan to spend Mardi Gras with them, and as much as it unnerves Caroline, she knows that Rebekah is very much looking forward to reconnecting with Stefan. She hasn't forgotten that, the last time they saw each other, it was because Stefan told Caroline that Rebekah was leaving after he spent the night with her—one last hurrah for them before she left town for good. Until they'd find each other again.

Which apparently will happen tonight.

"Will you be a doll and help Caroline settle?" Even as he asks his sister, Klaus turns to look at Caroline, his lips curving in an apologetic smile. "You'll have to excuse me, love. I didn't know you'd be showing up today, and I'm afraid I have business I must attend to before I can freely indulge in a week of pure, boundless _joie de vivre_ with you."

Caroline wants to snort. Like he ever does anything but indulging in freaking _joie de vivre_.

"Seriously? Don't you two ever stop with the annoying shameless flirting?" Rebekah has flashed to the door before Caroline can see her move at all, and she's looking at her impatiently, hands perched on her hips. "Let's go, shall we? I don't have all day to spend it babysitting you."

Caroline's been sitting for so long that, when she stands, her knees buckle slightly. Fortunately for her (not), Klaus's hand finds the way to the lower part of her back without hesitation. A rush of heat crawls up her spine as soon as he presses his hand against her, and more so she can avoid the inevitably delight surging trough her veins than because she's looking forward to spending the rest of her day with Bitchy Barbie Rebekah, she walks towards the door on firm, determined steps.

"See you later, Caroline."

She throws him a quick smile over her shoulder, and quickly follows Rebekah down the stairs, her eyes widening to adjust themselves to the dimmer lights.

At first sight, the bar looks exactly like it was, when Caroline first got here. It's only when she focuses that she begins to notice the differences. There are more costumers than before, and most of them are leaning over the counter, or sitting on the stools next to it, a beer bottle and a shot of what Caroline imagines is bourbon, given the reek of the place, standing in front of each one. Like that's the house's drink. Tending the bar, the same girl from before. Caroline hadn't noticed when she first entered the bar, but she's dressed strangely for a bartender. She's wearing a dark cardigan over a cute navy sundress, and even as she wipes a wet cloth over the counter, clearly to pretend she isn't stealing glances at Caroline every two seconds, she looks completely out of place in the bar—almost as out of place as Elijah, who's still sitting at the same table at the back where he was before, only now he's alone, attentively reading a book.

He doesn't look up at her once, and Caroline figures, he's waiting for Klaus's instructions with regards to how they must proceed around her. It makes her feel a little more grateful and a little less uncomfortable than it should, and she rationalizes it; tells herself she's too distracted by the pretty blond-haired bartender with the out-of-place dress and the avid curiosity—

"Caroline! Come on!"

—too distracted to notice, until she's almost followed Rebekah out of the door, that Tyler and Hayley are nowhere to be seen.

It paralyzes her for half a second, a sudden, unwanted thought: _what if they've left?_ But it can't be. Tyler wouldn't just up and disappear for as long as he remains compelled to protect her. Besides, she remembers Klaus's words about Hayley's loyalty and, as she does, the trepidation coiling in her stomach creeps up her throat, tastes like bile. _Where are they? _There's too much yet that she doesn't know; too much that she doesn't understand, and just like before, the racket of the crowd makes her feel dizzied, numb, slightly beside herself. It feels strangely welcome, comforting, when amidst the thundering crowd Rebekah turns to her, frowning as she looks up and down at her. "Where's your luggage?"

She's too overwhelmed by the loud noises of the multitude and the smell of rushing life around her to react defensively. She barely shrugs, strains her voice so it filters through the roaring tumult, even though she knows Rebekah will hear her anyway. "I wasn't planning to stay."

Rebekah snorts. "Or you didn't think you'd need clothes for the sort of activities you had in mind when you got here," she smiles, her grin twitching less malevolent than her words. "Come on," she presses, turning towards the multitude and quickly disappearing among the hordes of bouncing, exhilarated people.

Following her without losing her way, elbowing tourists and ignoring the pulsing heartbeats of _so many_, drumming in synch with the music and the clatter of the crowd—it's too much of an effort to think of a witty remark to Rebekah's assumption. But there are things that Caroline wants to clear out, so after at least ten minutes of roaming through winding, narrow, crammed streets, when they finally come out into a wider, quieter avenue where Rebekah's car is waiting, Caroline's ready to point out a few things. But before she can say anything, her thoughts stray.

"You drive?"

She didn't, before. She'd never learned.

But now Rebekah sits confidently behind the wheel of her black SUV, the same car Klaus used to drive around town, and shakes her head dismissively at Caroline, like one would to an obnoxious, irritating child. "It's not exactly quantum physics, is it?"

The ride to their house lasts no longer than four minutes, and Caroline can't tell whether they reach their destination so fast because Rebekah's the laziest, less environment-aware person to ever walk the earth, or because she's a crazy, reckless driver. All the way Caroline's eyes are fixed on the embankment running up the Mississippi river, taking in the sight of the sunny city as they move away from the hustle and bustle of the French Quarter and into a more modern, lordlier and definitely fancier part of town. She isn't half surprised when Rebekah parks, the SUV yanking to a screeching stop, in front of a bright white, gigantic plantation house, and only half disappointed with herself for letting the silence sprawl languidly between them before she found the right words to tell Rebekah that she isn't here because she wants to mindlessly jump into bed with her brother, _ugh_,and she'd better drop the smartass comments before she earns herself a bitch-slap of the metaphorical kind.

She isn't stupid enough to get into a physical fight with Rebekah, but _ugh_—

Luckily for both of them though, Caroline gets easily distracted.

The newest Mikaelson Manor is even more extravangant, luxurious, and utterly gorgeous than the one they still keep in Mystic Falls, and it makes sense, Caroline gathers. Bigger town, bigger house. Caroline doesn't want to gape, because she isn't the kind of girl to be impressed by opulence. Klaus is hardly her first acquaintance to live in a huge colonial mansion—though, admittedly, he is probably the only person she knows who owns one of those in every freaking town in the whole wide world. But _damn it_,it's a beautiful house, tastefully decorated, bright paintings hanging from the walls, and antiques decorating every surface. The southern orange sun illuminates every corner of the house, leaks through the open blinds that hang over the tall, broad windows. The whole place is shining, enthralling, stunning. It's the opposite of the dingy bar in Bourbon Street—less alive, perhaps; but if a tomb, it's an enamelled tomb of durable, blazing marble. Meant to last forever, luxuriously lodging the dead bodies living inside for as long as they will remain.

"Will you be requiring your own room or should you make yourself comfortable in my brother's bed while you wait for him?"

Caroline's captivated reverie stops as gently as their car ride did when Rebekah jerked the car to a violent stop up the driveway. This time, she doesn't shy away from glowering away the annoyance boiling under her skin. "Yes," she hisses, arms crossed over her chest. "I believe we've had this conversation before, but just in case you've forgotten, I have some class, unlike some other people."

Rebekah returns Caroline's furious glare unfazed. "Do you? I just opened my home to you, Caroline. Is being a bitch a token of gratitude among the peasantry?"

"Yes, actually," Caroline retorts, refusing to back off from Rebekah's wicked tongue. "When we're being talked down by uptight snobs who put on air and graces like they're oh, so much better than the rest of us unoriginal vampires just because, once upon a time, they used to live in a freaking castle."

She's fuming, a mixture of nerves and anxiety and searing anger rushing through her head. She's boiling up, muscles pulled tight as she prepares herself to blow off some steam by engaging in a bitching contest with Rebekah. But then Rebekah smiles, light and easy and genuine, and Caroline can only frown and follow her up the stairs when she says, "I lied. I do see why my brother is so taken with you. Come on, I'll show you to your room."

She's expecting comfort, and maybe a tiny bit of luxury and art deco, but she is hardly prepared for the ten foot floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the spectacular views that extend boundlessly behind the house. There's a wide lake, _of course_,surrounded by a never-ending terrace of bright green grass; this time, she gasps, taking in the ebony fireplace and the deluxe king-sized bed. There's a guest bath too, fully equipped and chiselled out of salmon-coloured marble. It's the most unbelievably beautiful room she has ever seen, and she kind of wants to squeal in delight and be outraged at the obscene lavishness at the same time, but both conflicting reactions crash and burn in the back of her throat when she notices a hardwood door in front of her en-suite bathroom, obviously leading to an adjacent room.

"Do I want to know where that door will take me if I open it?"

Rebekah chuckles. "It'll take you to a small parlour. At the other side of it, there's another door. _That_ door will take you to the master bedroom, should you choose to open it."

Caroline actually _laughs_ at that. It's just a form of release, she imagines. Letting out the tension fizzing in her nerves, as it escalates to the point of electro-shock as soon as Rebekah confirms her suspicions. The situation is ludicrous, maddening; she's burning up with so many rushing, conflicting feelings that she doesn't know if she should laugh or cry or run for the hills.

"Look, Caroline," Rebekah's voice softens, and maybe it's only the unexpected kindness in her tone that manages to drag Caroline away from the edge of hysteria she's tottering on. "I'm not trying to be smartass here, but I'm pretty sure my brother set up this whole room, door and parlour included, with the hope that you'd come here one day. If the connected rooms thing is a lame seduction trick, or a legitimate precaution to ensure your safety, I have no idea. None of us have any idea of what's going on, really, or how to handle it. I'm sure actual smoke is coming out of Elijah's ears right now," she smiles, moving towards the armchair standing in front of the absolutely beautiful vanity. She sits on her leg, her back turned to the mirror as she looks back at Caroline, the soft smile still perched on her lips. "He's in charge of damage control, always has been really, and this whole situation is pretty new to us. We're not sure how to handle it. We're too old to be comfortable around new things, Caroline, and you're a new thing. So I might choke on my foot occasionally around you, but I'm not trying to be hurtful or anything like that."

It's rather startling, but Rebekah's words actually manage to make her feel better, relaxed enough that, when she sits on the bed, and feels the soft, squashy mattress moulding to her weight, she lets herself fall backwards on the bed, her arms stretched as far as she can pull them. A tiny moan of contentment escapes her lips—it's the most comfortable bed she's ever laid on, with the exception of… yep. Klaus's bed, back in his manor in Mystic Falls. She smiles at the memory, for once not tensing up out of trepidation and pent-up desire. Thinks only of how _good_ it felt, and manages to, at least for a second or two, leave out all the rest: the guilt and the loneliness and the fear in the face of uncertainty.

It's a week. Mardi Gras.

A week of self-indulgence and hedonism and _joie de vivre_ before she has to face the reality of her very messed-up situation, and make up her mind about what it is that she wants, and whether or not she's ready to admit it to herself, and go through with it—consequences be damned, or dealt with without the need to make up excuses.

"Your brother told me you go to Tulane?" she asks, after a couple of minutes of staring up the chandelier hanging from the ceiling in silence. "Said you wanted to major in History?"

"I'm thinking about it," Rebekah replies, sounding distracted. "Camille's being helping me out but she's a graduate, so we don't see each other often on campus. Most of my classmates are so dull, really. You should enrol; we could show those sorority girls a few lessons on—"

"Who's Camille?"

She's the cutely dressed bartender, Caroline knows. She's a graduate student working on her anthropology PhD, or something close enough. She's human; Caroline had paid closer attention the second time she saw her. She seems a friend of the family, but she's a _human_ graduate student who tends Klaus's grungy bar in a pretty dress, and there's something about her that doesn't quite fit with the rest of the picture.

"She tends my brother's bar," Rebekah explains, and Caroline can almost hear the indifferent shrug in her voice. "She's a bit pathetically in love with him, but she's cool. She can be a lot of fun, actually."

Caroline sits up as if bouncing off a spring. She raises an eyebrow, head titled. "She's in love with _which_ of your brothers?"

Rebekah's perfectly waxed eyebrows furrow, like the question actually surprises. "Nik, of course. _The Howling Wolf_' is Nik's business," she snorts. "You obviously don't know Elijah very well if you think he'd own such a rusty nasty little dump of sin."

There's nothing Caroline can say to that. Nothing that won't make her sound stupid or clingy or insecure or needy or a lot of really pathetic things that she is _not_. So she doesn't say anything, just keeps her eyes open wide and baffled and only slightly freaked out because, guess what, she was a little bit more comfortable when the puzzle pieces didn't fit than she is now that she knows the cute pretty blond blue-eyed bartender in the cute sundress is actually in love with Klaus. Like, does she even know the _first thing_ about him? She's _human_; he's literally a monster out of her most terrifying nightmare.

It takes Rebekah a bit longer than it should have, Caroline thinks, but at last she catches up with Caroline's slightly horrified expression. "Oh, no no no," she exclaims, shaking her head vehemently. "I mean, you don't have to worry about Camille. It's not like Nik's interested or anything. She was already working there when Nik bought the place. She was rather taken with his evil ways as soon as they met, for a reason she never talks about. I think something bad happened to her. I don't know. It's not my place to pry but, you know, I think he kept her around because she reminds him of you, and she isn't horrified at the kind of business he's running in that stinking little hole he manages."

It's one thing to let the thought run loosely around your head, without ever pinning it down into words. It's a completely different thing to hear it out loud.

Caroline screws up her face in disgust, hissing. "Gross."

It's partly the thought of Klaus's replacing her with a human look-alike, and partly her imagination running wild around the _kind of business_ that Klaus is managing after dusk. But she can only deal with the disaster her life is inexorably becoming if she compartmentalizes her worry, so, for the time being at least, she chooses to be disgusted by Klaus's sexual creepiness first.

"No, it's not like that," Rebekah assures her, waving her hand, her brow folding like she can't believe Caroline's thoughts actually went _there_. "I asked him, actually. He said she's like having a nice piece of art in his office. She's a pretty bubbly _living_ thing in a rotting cavern of decay."

Caroline nods. Oh-kay. Whatever. It's not like she cares. She's not jealous or insecure and she's not a hypocrite. It's just incredibly freaking weird that, one, the girl is _human_, and two, she dresses and looks like Caroline. Pardon her for being slightly crept-out.

"So," Rebekah snaps her fingers in front of her face. When did she stand up from the armchair? "Want to go shopping? You're going to have to do a little bit better than that cutesy dotted sundress you're wearing, if my brother's taking you out tonight to see the city."

Caroline resents the traitorous small smile that creeps up her face and moistens up her eyes, but _boy_ does she love shopping.

—

**tbc.**

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**Thank you for reading as always, guys! That means so much to me! 3**

**So, because people have been asking, I'd like to clarify a few things:**

1) Hayley will be part of the universe of this story, but not really a part of the story per se. However, Tyler will be a part of the story: he's the reason why Caroline finally makes the decision to go find Klaus, and even though I may not always succeed, I do try not to use my characters as mere plot devices. Now, Tyler's fate in this story is highly influenced by Hayley and his relationship with her, so she will remain in the sidelines all throughout.

2) The status of Klaus and Hayley's relationship in canon, up to at least 4x16, will be incorporated into this story. Yes, I hated it. But as you know, my fics are always as canon-compliant as they can be, because I write fic so I can _control_ canon. Control is a very important word here. I will do my best to explain the Klaus and Hayley thing in a way that, I promise, will not be damaging to the Klaus/Caroline romance, as it will be explained in clearly unromantic terms. Possibly in Chapter 7 – or 8, if my plans for Chapter 7 expand a bit. And yes, it's all about _control_.

3) Camille will be a part of the story. I've already drafted a climatic scene in which Caroline and Camille will bond under less than ideal circumstances, and I'm very excited about it. Don't worry, she also will _not_ be a threat to the relationship between Klaus and Caroline. Neither, by the way, will be Tyler. Right now – Klaus and Caroline's own issues and circumstances are what's standing between who they are and what they desire. I'm not a fan of using third parties to fuel the angst of a ship. I do try to make my stories as well-written as I can, and resort to as few tricks as possible. Though of course, I will not always succeed, so please let me know if something isn't working.

4) There will be Stefan/Rebekah. If you've read some of my fics, I'm sure this doesn't come as a surprise, just as, if you read **We Are Infinte**, my other multi-chaptered KC fic, I'm certain you sure weren't surprised when this chapter became _all _about Rebekah + Caroline. I'll do my best however, and try to keep my flailing over the Rebekoline friendship from taking over the story, I promise ;)

5) Marcel will appear in Chapter 7. There will be plot, by the way. I'm still polishing out the details.

6) In Chapter 6, things will heat up between Klaus and Caroline :)

**Once again, thank you so much for your interest in this story. I apologize for the novel of an author's note I just wrote. Please, drop me a line if you have any comment, or just want to let me know what you think of the story. You can also follow me or message me on tumblr, I'm ****theelliedoll****, if you have any comments or questions or even if you want to request a sneak peak or spoilers ;)**

**Did I say thank you for reading? Thank you thank you thank **_**you!**_**  
**


	6. Chapter 6

**Hello guys! Wow – thank you so much for your kind reviews, and follows and favourites – I hope you will enjoy this new chapter as well! You're certainly keeping me motivated to go on working on this story with your interest!**

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**Chapter 6**

**.-.**

Night has fallen, dark as only dark can be in a city where the sun shines so bright, when the four of them decide to walk towards the Warehouse District. They manage to catch the end of the Krewe of the Ancient Druids parade, and, later, they eat dinner out in the street, Shrimp Creole out of a paper cone, standing carelessly in front of an old-fashioned lunch wagon.

Lightheaded still by the rush of the crowd, the echoing drums of the marching bands still buzzing in her ears, Caroline can't stop giggling as Klaus twirls a chopstick over his knuckles, skilful as the crew of jugglers that flanked the end of the parade. He pushes it over the ridge of his little finger, manages to snatch it midair before it falls, his thumb clammed against the palm of his hand.

"Quit the health hazard, isn't it?" he chuckles, the voice rumbling from somewhere deep within his chest as he points the small wooden stick towards his sister, his eyes twitching happily beneath the halo of a nearby multi-coloured string of paper lanterns.

Rebekah raises an eyebrow, greatly unimpressed. "Why don't you go find the clowns unit, Nik? I'm sure they're still drinking around here somewhere. They might let you parade with them if you ask nicely."

Stefan coughs up a laugh, and Caroline joins him, absent-minded,the jingling rattle of her giggles bubbling up her throat like a wave of fresh air as she tilts on her heels, dangling back and forth like a raggedy puppet. It might be the blinding glow of the streetlights, or the taste of Tabasco burning on her tongue, or the million different colours of tens of thousands of people hiding away behind glittery masks, so that she can only know them by the rumbling echo of their exhilarated heartbeats. Caroline doesn't know why, but she is spinning. It might be the jangling of the _frottoir_ at the other end of the street, the bottle opener grating on the metal in perfect maddening synchrony with the rushing of her blood. Or perhaps, it's the icy cold touch of the junk medallion necklace that Klaus grabbed for her when the Krewe members started tossing at the crowd whatever trinkets they had left at the end of the night. It trickles now between her breasts, brushing against her heated skin every time her hips sway to the fast-paced rhythm of the accordions.

Klaus had laced the Celtic knot around her neck, his arm clad powerfully around her waist as he kept her pressed tightly against her. He was standing behind her, hips pushed against the small of her back. Under any other circumstances, she wouldn't have allowed it; she would have protested; she would have thought twice about it, before letting him do, jam his hips into her and open his hand over her stomach, his long fingers unapologetic as they crawled their way beneath her flowery sleeveless blouse. But swallowed by the crowd, surrounded by thousands of people, bodies pressed together, limbs entangling, chests bumping, feet stumbling—the pressure of Klaus's fingers spread over her hipbones, her back resting against the hard muscles of his chest, it kept her anchored on the ground even as she allowed her mind to fly up high, carried away by the earthly, drumming noises of the marching bands, and the blight, glittering colours of the hundreds and hundreds of costumes.

It was insultingly easy for him to snatch the trinket as it flew over their heads, as effortless as the caress of his fingers brushing over her collarbone as he slid the medallion around her neck. His other hand remained pressed bellow her belly button as he clutched the medallion between her breasts, the combined sensation of his warm hand and the cold metal making her shudder, fall deeper into his arms. "It's an endless circle," he had whispered into her ear, a rush of hot moist breath brushing down her neck. "No beginning and no ending, Caroline."

When she felt his lips dropping a light kiss on the hollow of her shoulder, his fingers doodling over her stomach, the tiny moan that broke off her throat got lost in the rackety clatter of the crowd.

"I don't think Marcel would appreciate me hogging the spotlight during _his_ time of year, sister."

The sound of his voice, light but less relaxed that only seconds ago, tears Caroline away from the memory of his hands on her body, her lips on her skin. She still shivers as she lands back onto reality, but also frowns, confused—_Who's Marcel?_—as she struggles out of her daze when she notices how the playful mood between the bickering siblings begins to crack and crumble.

Rebekah's insidious smile trembles worriedly when she sighs. "Don't worry, Nik. Elijah says Marcel won't try anything with eyes on him," she whispers, low enough that no humans can hear her over the loud, thundering noises of street musicians and overexcited passers-by, rattling and shouting tirelessly. "He won't risk everything just to get back at you."

"I'm not worried," Klaus assures her, shrugging. All of a sudden, everything about him has turned cold; the almighty, indestructible monster has replaced the young man who, to unsuspecting eyes, had been entertaining himself only seconds ago by toying with his chopsticks. Now the wood breaks and splinters under the ruthless pressure of his fingers, brittle as flakes of sugar. "There's a full moon on Tuesday."

Rebekah's breath visibly hitches, but she obviously knows better than saying anything else on the matter. Stefan, however—

"Who's Marcel?"

"No one you need to waste your time worrying about?" Klaus immediately answers, cutting and harsh, his words sharpening with sudden, unexpected anger.

Caroline's frown deepens when she catches Stefan's eyes, noticing the worry in his gaze. She wants to do something besides sighing in defeat, because if Klaus doesn't want to say anything else about whoever Marcel is or why Rebekah believes that he's worried about it—what can they do? She wants to say something, but before she can think of anything to say, Rebekah takes the matter into her own hands, clapping her palms together and painting a wide smile on her face.

"Let's go dancing," she exclaims, eyes bright with bouncing excitement as she grabs Stefan's hand. "Come on, let's get out of the streets, go somewhere classy and little more private, shall we? I'm sick of drunk tourists flashing their boobs at me."

Stefan chortles loudly, lets her pull him by the hand as they both begin to walk away. "Oh, you think they're flashing their boobs at you?"

Rebekah looks at him pointedly. "Why wouldn't they?"

Stefan laughs in response, again, and Caroline can't help but breathe out relieved when Klaus, the Marcel issue apparently overcome, takes her hand in his and follows Rebekah and Stefan down the narrow street towards the riverbank. "Come on, love," he urges—

—and she lets him drag her away.

Right into a scene spelled out of a dream.

The upscale martini bistro is the exact opposite of Klaus's shabby Bourbon Street bar and, with her heart jumping up and down her throat in excitement, Caroline couldn't be happier about that. It's the kind of place she has never seen but in the movies, and even though she feels a little underdressed in her skin-tight black jeans and lacy blouse, she realizes no one in this place is going to be looking down on her anytime soon. It hardly escapes her attention, the fact that waitresses are cutting through her wrists to pour just the few drops of bloods on the cocktails that they serve.

It's a classy, lavish, tastefully decorated den of vampires. Where they come to drink and feed and slow dance to classic live jazz.

She should be horrified and, don't get judgey, a part of her _is _horrified. But there's another part—the part that gets hungry when the smell of freshly poured blood reaches her nostrils—that coldheartedly realizes that this is _it_. This is the part of their world she'll never get to see if she stays in her little town, and it is a world made up specifically for her kind. She worries that the waitresses may be compelled; that much worse than a few cuts up their inner arms might be going on in the darkened tables upstairs, where not even her enhanced vampires senses can reach. But she's also tingling with anticipation, her head spinning with a thrilling mixture of guilty pleasure and trepidation when she realizes, everyone in the place must know who Klaus is—and still he holds her hand in his.

It's the acid test, she knows.

She's a debutante, and this is her coming out into society ball, so to speak. She's passing as a tourist after all, and conveniently dressed like one. She wants to smile when she realizes why Rebekah had insisted on jeans and a cute top—there would be time for elegant dresses on a different night.

Grateful, Caroline turns her head to smile at Rebekah, but in the way her eyes find Stefan who, unexpectedly, is only shaking his head, looking half amused despite the dangerous overindulgence that permeates the atmosphere. His eyes are locked on Rebekah's happy smile when he mutters, "Just like Chicago, huh?"

With a quick jerk of his arm, he sends her spinning right into the centre of the dance floor. When she stops whirling on her feet, she falls immediately into his arms, smiling so happily that Caroline wants to groan because damn it, they so do not have the right to look that cute together. It's dangerous and it's going to end in bloodshed and she's really the worst blood-addicts anonymous sponsor in the world.

Klaus tugs gently at her hand, drawing her attention. "If it makes you feel better, sweetheart, they're not compelled."

Caroline frowns up at him, one second before she realizes he means the waiters and waitresses cutting up their wrists to spice up the patrons' otherwise dull alcoholic drinks. She wants to scoff at him, because whatever, it's still gross. Except it's not gross, at all-it's the opposite of gross, and it does make her feel better that they're not compelled, even though, you know, the things certain people get their kicks off, really. She won't be scandalized, however; if only to keep on pushing down the remnants of a small-town mentality that, to her shame, sometimes jump up into the front of her mind.

"Fancy a drink, love?"

With her hand still fiercely clasped in his, he pulls her towards the bar without given her the occasion to refuse. Smoothly, like he owns every corner of the world he treads, he winks at the beautiful girl behind the counter, smiles flirtatiously when he asks, low and irresistible, "Esperanza, please. Two glasses of Champagne for me and my new friend."

Esperanza returns the devious grin unabashed, like she's more than used to the scenario. Klaus picks up a girl and takes her to the classiest, most sophisticated place in town for people like them. He flirts shamelessly with the help, never fails to let his current _new friend_ know her place as nothing but the convenient entertainment that he's chosen for the night. Caroline doesn't know if she should feel repulsed or indifferent, but she suspects the fire scorching her insides has less to do with jealousy than it has to do with the heavy load of the lie, weighting down on her. Who she is and what Klaus feels and how unfair it is, that pretending to be his girl-for-the-night doesn't give her the comfort she had expected that it would.

"Virgin, I take it?"

The furtive glint in his eyes lets her know this is still a game he's playing. He says _virgin_, loads the question with the expected innuendo in the sexual game he plays so neither the beautiful Esperanza, nor anyone else who might be watching notices that Klaus is offering her the chance of having her fancy drink without a trickle of blood being poured down in it. It makes her feel strangely like an outsider, even more so than her jeans and high-heeled boots; even more than how self-consciously she feels playing the part she swore to herself she'd never play again. Innocent little doesn't-know-any-better Little Red Riding Hood being played for a fool by the ruthless Big Bad Wolf who's planning to eat her whole and make her disappear.

So fuck _it_, she thinks, because it's being that kind of night.

She shakes her head at him and turns around to look at Esperanza with a tight, demanding smile. "Please."

A quick cut, a slow stream of dark red blood, and the Champagne sparkles rosé.

Klaus's eyes widen, beautiful and taken by genuine surprise as she empties the flute down her throat, slowly, sumptuously as she presses her tongue to the roof of her mouth, taking pleasure in the soft, rose-flavoured taste of the blood mixed up with the dry bitterness of the Champagne. The sparkles moisten up her eyes, and through the haze she smiles up at the star-struck expression on Klaus's face. It lasts barely a second after she places her empty glass on the counter; then, he groans so low she barely hears it, and before she realizes he has moved, he's standing by the girl singer on the stage, whispering into her ear, his eyes staring so hard and unforgiving that they burn a hole right into Caroline's flamed-up soul.

When he approaches her, walking so slowly across the dance floor, deliberately make her ache with anticipation, she falls into her arms like a lost child. He embraces her, literally, both arms closing tight around her back while she burrows her face in the crook of his neck, and she doesn't recall _this_ ever happening before. He mutters so tenderly against her throat, "I asked the nightingale to sing our song,"—

—and she doesn't even feel tempted to scorn him this time.

They don't have a song, like the don't have a thing; they have a myriad of songs they will one day dance to, she thinks, she _hopes_, she dreads—now that the roaring celebration, the taste of blood, the buzzing of the Champagne sparkles, and the unbearable pull of his arms keeping her pressed to him have lowered her self-defence. But when the Helen Forrest lyrics begin to float over the dancing couples that cover and envelop their intimate embrace, raspier than she remembers as the bird onstage tears them painfully off the worn-out folds of her throat, Caroline finds herself smiling against the slick skin of his neck.

She chuckles. "Prince Charming?"

She forgets all about _the man I love_, and lets him spin her around, holding her closer every time their bodies clash together after only briefly pulling apart. _And when he comes my way, I'll do my best to make him stay_. It's a promise, carried by his hands as they slide from the small of her back to settle on her sides, his long fingers twitching upwards to graze the side of her breasts. Her breath catches in her throat, and she bites back a whimper. "You always dance like this with the girls you pick up from the crowd?"

He disentangles himself from her, a bit. Pulls his head from her hair to look her in the eye, open and honest. He doesn't say a word. He can't, of course. There is a reason they are pretending, and she can easily—_too _easily—see herself in the role of the clingy oblivious girl who believes herself in love after just five minutes of quite the overwhelming display of charm and power. It'd be quite simple for him to play along, assure her loud and clear for all the hear that _of course not_, she's a special girl who has been inexorably pulling him towards her since the very first second when she caught of his eye amidst the multitude. And how far from the truth would that little game be?

Not far enough that they can safely pretend.

It's not like she is jealous. It's not like she didn't know the answer before she asked. It's not like she needs him to reassure her, admit out loud that there's no one else for him but her. Isn't the tragedy that they both know?

She'd risk a self-pitying trip down memory lane to escape the inescapable.

Tonight, she'd rather let it be not real. Be a tourist vampire come to New Orleans for the gaudy celebrations, and being unwittingly pulled in the dangerous web that is catching the eye of the Evil King. Let this be just like Junior High. Go to bed with the mysterious and alluring bad guy because he's _so good_ at preying on each and every one of her endless list of insecurities, and later on dared be surprised when he pulls out his fangs, ready to devour her.

Those aren't memories that Caroline likes to revisit, but Klaus has no way of knowing how much the role assigned affects her. Little unsuspecting needy girl, desperately craving for attention; seduced and used like a tissue, disposable.

Leave it to Klaus to pick out her worst nightmare, and make her wish it true. Because _oh_—

He makes her turn on her feet, holds her impossibly close, slides his half-open mouth over the bones above her chest, darting out his hot wet tongue to make her purr, just because he can, and he _will_. She feels herself melting into him, disappearing; and as the reasons why _not_ fade in a blur of hunger, bloodlust, and desire—she can only curse her sheer dumb luck. It'd be a lot damn easier to claim bad judgement, pathological insecurities, unredeemable naïveté, when after his thumb barely brushes her nipple in the quick, sudden race of his hand to grab her by the arm, she follows him out when he pulls, stepping out of the illuminated, refined jazz club, stumbling into the darkened, dirty city landscape, her hands fisted on his shirt so she doesn't lose him in the endless streets crawling with monsters of a different kind.

They turn the corner and, with a violent shove, he pins her to the hard stone of the narrow walls that shallow them, deep into the guts of a stinking back alley. The uncontainable strength of his hands digging into her hips keeps her standing, barely, when the heels of her boots slip into the cracks of the cobblestones and she stumbles against him, weightless.

"Klaus…"

She barely has time to let his name rip hoarsely out of her throat before he kisses her.

His lips crash cruelly onto hers and she gasps out in pain when her neck bends awkwardly, her head hitting the stone wall behind her. He takes advantage, pounces, rolls his tongue into her mouth and plunges deep down her throat, his hands gripping her hips tighter, effortlessly hitching her up so she has no option but to wrap her legs around his waist. Still kissing her, hard and demanding, he runs his hands up her thighs, hooking them below her knees to angle her entangled limbs downwards so she can feel him rocking against her. Just as he thrusts firmly into her, just as the first shot of blinding, burning pleasure rushes up her spine, his mouth pulls away so her moan breaks out into the night, surging over the faded noises of the still raging, still partying crowd that they now hide from.

Caroline can still hear the rapid heartbeats of a million people drumming next to her, but even as her hunger sharpens in remembrance, the burning, delightful ache between her legs overpowers her senses. Klaus's head dips and falls right into the curve of her neck, his lips closing and sucking on her pulse point, and even as she opens her eyes wide to the glowing reflections of a thousand paper lanterns flying over their heads, just hanging in there, refusing to fly away—even then a small smile escapes her lips because how can he be so fierce, move against her so desperately, and still retain every ounce of self-control? A thousand years of fighting, Caroline imagines, enthralled that he nipped her lips while he kissed her raw as now he draws her jugular inside his mouth, sucking without as much as grazing her delicate skin.

"I could crash this building to the ground," he roars, his hips rocking down onto hers rhythmically, fast and relentless like the echoes of the marching drums that will go on drumming until the sun rises up over the horizon. He pushes her flat against the wall, her legs pushed higher up his back when he slides one hand down her side to cup her ass, the tips of his long fingers teasing her from behind, pressed hard and drawing circles over the ridged seam of her jeans. "I could pull it down and fuck you among the wreckage."

Oh, _fuck_.

She feels about to combust, the combined pressure of his hard-on and his fingers between her legs barely a ghost touch against the rumble of his ragged voice, the images conjured up by his words. She feels the pleasure rushing through her veins, and digging her nails into his shoulders she starts bucking her hips, jerkily undulating between his hand and his crotch. He keeps on talking, and she goes on whimpering.

"But I won't fuck you in the street, Caroline," he growls, his free hand roaming beneath her top, palming her breast over the slippery lace of her bra as he deftly rolls her nipple between his fingers. "You deserve better than a stinking, rotting alleyway, love. You deserve a palace." He tugs. He licks. He thrusts. "You deserve a bed of roses, pert with sharp thorns that will prickle your skin, so I can lick each trickle of warm blood that pours out of you."

"Klaus…"

Pleasure ripples blissfully through her, hot as burning coals, but before she can let herself fall, he pulls away, lets her legs slide off him boneless before he scoops her up in his arms, and flashes them invisibly into the night.

By the time she regains her sense of place, she's lying down on his bed.

He's unzipping her boots, unzipping her jeans, pushing them slowly down her legs, taking his time, like at last he isn't worried that she's going to bolt. It makes her want to smile, as she looks at him rolling her discarded pants up in a ball and throwing them across the room, leaning up to grab her hand and help her sit up so he can peel off her top. Her eyes find his gleaming gaze right when his fingers curl on the hem of her shirt, and before he drags it over her head, she clasps her hands on his face, pulling him in for a soft kiss.

He's still kissing her slow, languid, as he pushes her down on her back, hovering over her body as his hand buries beneath her shoulders to unclasp her bra. He pulls it off her with an unexpected tenderness that makes her shiver, her searing pleasure quieting down, vibrating in a soft and constant hum beneath the goosebumps that perk up across her clammy skin. His tongue licks up the column of her neck, flat and heavy, and when his fingers hook on the edge of her underwear, his mouth follows the tingling tracks of his fingers, kissing down her chest, her stomach—lower as he shuffles on his knees until he's sitting at the feet of the bed, her legs dangling up in the air as he takes of her panties.

Leaning on his hands, he pushes himself off the bed, kneeling on the carpet and dropping a line of wet, open-mouthed kisses up the inside of her thigh. It tickles, so she giggles, and perhaps it's the childlike jingling that suddenly bursts out of her throat, breaking the tense stillness of the moment, but in that instant his hands reach brusquely up her body and, sinking his fingers in the soft flesh above her hipbones, almost achingly, he drags her down towards the end of the bed.

She's completely nude and he's still fully dressed, she realizes somewhere across the haze of her anticipation. She thinks of protesting, of sitting up and grabbing mindlessly, furiously at his shirt to pull it over his head. But before she can move, she feels his mouth on her, so hard and soft at the same time, just like she remembers—but _better_, the guilt and doubts vanished as if by the magic of the carnivals. She widens her eyes, opens her lips as a strangled gasp cruises painfully from her lungs—

—and he keeps on kissing her, loving her long after the sun has risen.

—

**Tbc.**

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**Thanks for reading guys! You liked? Any comments? Please drop me a line and let me know what you thought!**

**Next: Caroline will meet Marcel, and she will find out something slightly disturbing about Klaus's relationship with Hayley.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Thank you guys, wow! I'm so glad so many people liked the previous chapter. Thanks especially to those of you who recommended it to other people – it means so much to me to know there are people reading and enjoying out there. Thanks for sharing your thoughts with me, and allowing me the chance to discuss the story with you! You're wonderful, and far too kind to me.**

**There's (again) a longer note at the end. I leave you with the new chapter now! Enjoy!**

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**Chapter 7**

**.-.**

She's not expecting Tyler's text to suggest meeting in Klaus's bar of all places, but she figures that he doesn't know the city any better than she does, and Klaus's bar might be one of the few places that are actually _safe_—at least for her.

The mid-afternoon sunlight is dark, a dull hue of orange that soothes their eyes after the long morning of bright, burning sunbeams, so rare in the place where she comes from even this late into the winter. It's a relief when they enter the dim-lit bar, Rebekah wrinkling her nose in disgust, muttering under her teeth, "The _reek_ of this place," but following Stefan complacently towards a small table for two at the back, barely sparing a glance in Caroline's direction when she walks towards where Tyler is waiting for her at the far end of the counter.

Camille is there, Caroline notices immediately, wearing a bright red jacket over a pretty dressed dotted with sunflowers and, really, it's uncanny. But luckily for her, Klaus's pretty art piece, if Rebekah is to be trusted, is pointedly standing at the other end of the counter, talking with a small group of girls. One of them stands out strikingly; long brown-hair, striking round eyes.

Seems like Tyler has brought his own share of bodyguards. _Wolves. _Hayley.

Sometimes, really—

Caroline can't help but wonder how the hell they ended up like this.

"Hey," he greets, offering one of the two beers that are standing on the counter.

"Hey."

It's awkward at best, and no matter how hard she tries to convince herself that it's all in her head, she's sure that Tyler's eyes narrow knowingly, angrily, as soon as she's standing close enough for him to smell her. Smell _Klaus_ on her.

Uggh, _wolves_.

The place is crammed with them: the girls standing with Hayley, chatting up with Camille at the other end of the counter, but also a few others, scattered around the place, sitting on the tables, mingling with the rest of the patrons like they're all a big group of friends, the usual clientele. A pack.

Every pore of her vampire body is sweating, suddenly; her hair standing on edge because she might have a lousy track record in terms of how good she is at remembering, but werewolves are a vampire's greatest, natural enemy. It's hardly Caroline's fault that she keeps forgetting because the last two guys she slept with—the last two guys she _lo_— just happened to be both things at the same time. How's that for keeping the lines drawn straight?

At least it melts the small knot of guilt clenching in her stomach, helps her look steadily at Tyler when she asks, straight to the point, "So what's Hayley doing here?"

She doesn't mean right now in a dingy bar named _The Howlin' Wolf_, filled up with werewolves. She means in New Orleans. With Klaus.

Tyler takes the beer bottle to his mouth, takes a long swallow before wiggling his eyebrows at her. "She's submitted to Klaus. She's been for a while, too. Before he left Mystic Falls."

_She's submitted to Klaus_. Cross her heart and hope to die that Caroline's mind doesn't immediately go to the gutter, but still, her fingers clench involuntarily around the beer bottle, and she can't help the derisive scoff that jumps out of her mouth when, attempting to feign an indifference she doesn't feel, she snaps. "I don't speak wolf, Tyler. What does that mean?"

Tyler cocks an eyebrow, defying her to come on, go on _pretending_ that they both don't know what is going on between her and Klaus_._ He actually even chuckles a little, even though very obviously _not_ amused. "Well, it probably means what you're thinking right now, but also—" he pauses, takes pity on her because he probably sees in her face what Caroline isn't going to admit out loud. "Care, you have to understand. Wolves need an alpha. You can only make it on your own for so long."

His voice sort of breaks, towards the end, and for a reason she doesn't quite grasp yet, Caroline's heart misses a beat as Tyler's gaze turns pointed, loaded with unspoken words. For at least a second she forgets that _Hayley's submitted to Klaus_, and that perhaps—most likely, because well, fuck _you_—that means she's been sleeping with him.

The place smells of bourbon and wolves and Caroline's starting to feel a tiny bit nauseated. She sighs, mostly to reign in the sudden urge to retch. "What are you saying, Tyler?"

He swallows visibly, just spit and blatant nervousness—his beer is standing forgotten on the counter. "I'm saying that I need a pack, Care. I'm saying that Hayley is not the only one. There're been others, for a while now. Stray wolves who've found their way to New Orleans for the last year or so. He—" Tyler smiles, and oh _God_ he looks so sad, so much sadder than Caroline has seen him in a while, and she feels a tiny shot of electricity shocking up her heart, as he whispers. "Klaus's been gathering a new pack, _his_ new pack."

Funny how some things work sometimes, right? Like, what Tyler just said would be a lot less shocking if it didn't make so much sense.

It's the one thing that Klaus always wanted—not to be alone. A backup family in case his _half_-siblings, among whom he never really felt he truly belonged, turned their backs on him. Inside his thousand-years-old-of-blood-and-misery head, it's only a matter of _when_. Caroline should know—there are reasons besides her safety that he refuses to let her go, no matter how hard she kicks his shins, uselessly attempting to let go in spite of him and in spite of her own traitorous heart.

But now, here—

Klaus's been gathering his own pack.

Only this time he isn't massacring wolves by the dozen, forcing his blood down their throats before Elena's—before paralysis and immortality and becoming the thing _wolves_ hate the most. _Undead_.

It's kind of heart-warming, isn't it? That he's doing it right the second time around: dominance and submission instead of murder and transition.

It could be _nice_ enough of Klaus for Caroline to ignore his dominant ways include—_may_ include, no need to jump the gun just yet, Care—sexing up dirty little she-wolves with a bent for hitting on _taken_ men.

And no, shut up—she'll think about her and Klaus and _taken_ later, okay?

Right now the thought that jumps to the front of her mind is not so different from the last question she asked because, really, _what is Tyler saying?_

"Are you telling me that—?"

He cuts her off before she can even try to come up with the right words. "That if Klaus frees me of his compulsion, I will stay."

_Stay_. Stay here in New Orleans with Klaus's pack. With Hayley. Oh, God, _why_—

"You're submitting to Klaus?" This has to be a joke. This cannot be how the story ends, and damn it if this isn't one of those cases when the fact that it makes sense only makes it _so much_ worse. "After everything he did to you?"

Remember that time Caroline set herself up as the one forever defender of Tyler Lockwood's affronted tragic circumstances under the evil hand of Klaus Fucking Mikaelson? So much for all the guilt she had to burn, the night she caved and went to his house. Let him have her because really, he wanted her so much—who was she to deny him? She was so tired of denying herself anyway.

And look at them now.

If Tyler submits, genuinely—following their freaky wolfish routine—Klaus will get his is his, after all; he _will die, or he will remain by my side_, he told her when she pled for his freedom. Klaus _made_ Tyler.

Emptying the beer down her throat in one long, breathless gulp, swallowing until she chokes, it's all Caroline can do to keep down the nausea coiling in her stomach. It's—_ugh_. There are no words. It's unbelievable and disgusting and she doesn't believe it—she _can't_ believe it.

"You hate Klaus," she spits, in a hiccup of beer fumes and blinding fury because goddamnit, _she doesn't understand_. "You would never submit to—"

"It's not about Klaus!" Tyler hisses, struggling to keep his voice down because werewolves might not have supernatural hearing like they do, but the Devil only knows the kind of monsters that Klaus is keeping around. "I'm a wolf, Caroline. You can't understand. I need a pack."

"But you're an alpha—"

"That's how it goes, Care," he sighs, his eyes dry, but a tiny bit softer as he pauses, as if struggling to find the right words to make her understand. "Two alphas will fight for dominion until one of them submits, or dies."

Caroline shakes her head, _no_. Tyler is under Klaus's compulsion—maybe that's affecting his reasoning. Maybe it's like the sire bond. Maybe if Klaus compels a hybrid that he made himself, maybe it has some weird freaky effect that's making Tyler revert to his disturbingly _gross_ sired self and, well, in that case, it's not his fault and Caroline has no reason to be so goddamned _angry_, but for the life of her, she has to bite down her tongue until she tastes blood not to just snap and ask Tyler if Klaus's fucked him into submission as well (and hey, isn't Caroline glad she isn't a wolf?).

Her day just keeps getting better and better in terms of shocking, bard-inducing revelations. First Hayley. Now Tyler. How unbelievably _nice_ of them to replace the pack of hybrids they took from Klaus.

"So you've just given up," she says, still holding onto her disbelief, because she just cannot accept that after so much pain, so much hatred and resentment—this is how all of it ends: they make it as if it never was.

Tyler actually shrugs, finishing his beer before setting the bottle on the table with a little bit more force than Caroline considers strictly necessary. "I've been thinking maybe there is a reason why Klaus has managed to bend the world to his every whim for the past millennium, you know?" His eyes narrow, but he doesn't look threatening. He doesn't sound bitter or defeated; only resigned, perhaps. "You can only resist him for so long, you should know that better than anyone."

Her breath clots in her throat, and she stands paralyzed, watching him nod at her, _see ya_, before walking towards the end of the counter, his arm effortlessly nesting into the small of Hayley's back.

She doesn't spare Caroline a glance, barely smiles lopsidedly at Tyler, and thank the_ Heavens_ for that.

Caroline cannot, and will not be held accountable for her own actions if Hayley as much as bats her uncannily long eyelashes at her.

Seriously.

_I'm a wolf, Caroline. You can't understand_.

Seriously?

_She's submitted to Klaus_.

Serious-_fucking_-ly?

"Has nobody ever told you that vampires and werewolves don't mix up that well, pretty eyes?"

She's so immersed in her own thoughts, that Caroline doesn't notice the vampire that enters the bar until he's leaning on the counter right next to her. A lot damn closer than he should be if he cares to keep his head attached to the rest of his body, is Caroline's first thought when she turns around to look at him.

"Has nobody ever told you that it's pretty damn rude to sneak up on a lady?"

His whole pretty damn _gorgeous_ face splits up with the widest, most enthralling smile that Caroline has seen in her entire _very_ short life. "Marcel," he drawls, husky and musical as he extends his hand in greeting.

They're standing so close that he actually has to move back to offer her his hand, but _pointless_, she wants to scoff, her heart joggling up and down her ribs madly as soon as the name slides seductively out of his lips. _Marcel_. Oh, nice. Really. Nice. So this is Marcel. Chatting her up.

Where the hell is Klaus? He said he had a business to attend to. He'd be at the bar if she needed anything. They'd go out for dinner after her meeting with Tyler.

For God's sake she can almost smell the blood already.

This isn't good. This isn't going to end well.

Doing her best to heave slow, relaxed breaths, she makes a point of folding her hands together on the counter, not even acknowledging his extended hand as she throws a quick glance at Tyler. He's standing rigidly at the end of the bar, fists clenched by his sides and eyes shot wide, fixated on Caroline. He doesn't know who Marcel is but, like Caroline, he can certainly smell the sheer _power_ that he radiates. Besides deliriously _beautiful_, the guy is old and powerful—it's obvious in the way he carries himself, but also in the way Caroline remembers Klaus snapping the stupid chopstick between his fingers at the mere mention of his name, last night.

Oh, _God_.

Is Tyler's compulsion kicking in full-force because he knows instinctively that Caroline's in danger? Does Marcel know? Is he some kind of nemesis that is going to hurt her just to get at Klaus? Oh, God. Is this how it ends? Already? Is this how far they made it? A whole entire _day_?

In the two seconds it takes him to realize Caroline isn't going to be flirting back tonight, she manages not only to make eye contact with Tyler but, to her horror, she catches Hayley's pointed gaze as she moves wolfishly, swift and nimble-footed across the bar, in the direction of the narrow staircase leading up to Klaus's shabby ridiculous upstairs office.

For fuck's sake, is she going to have to be _grateful_ that Hayley saved her now? How pathetic is her whole life going to get, really? Spinning on her heels to look back at Marcel, she catches Hayley's eye one last time before she disappears up the stairs. Caroline makes sure to load her gaze with as much disdain as haughtiness as she is capable to gather, and actually sneers.

The _bitch_ actually rolls her eyes at Caroline.

On their way back to the metallic rack crammed with an obscene number of half-empty liquor bottles, her eyes find Marcel's penetrating gaze once again, and this time, she tries out a quick, tight-lipped smile. "I'm Caroline," she mock-grins, "and I'm not interested."

His dazzling smile perseveres, brighter with every second that goes by. "You ever thought of having fun with your own kind? I got here just in time to see the dog walking away and I thought, _damn_, I bet the pretty lady could use some old Southern comfort—"

She cuts him off with a loud scoff. Come _on_, dude. She's got a Master's Degree on snubbing a freaking thousand-year-old Nordic-British _original_ vampire with a landscape hanging at the Hermitage. A melodious, _arrogant_ southern drawl ain't gonna do it for her. The guy might be kinda hot, and he certainly irradiates power and savoir-faire, but he is nothing compared to the real deal.

Who, by the way, is taking his sweet time coming downstairs with his wolfish little friend. Yes, probably not because he's spending some quality time with his pack-mate Hayley, but because flashing down those stairs to come to her rescue would be the last nail in the coffin of their pretty awful plan of enjoying the festivities together and hoping nobody catches up with the program. But whatever. He's probably has eyes and ears on her right now, and Rebekah and Stefan are sitting on a table not too far away. _Really_, whatever.

She's still entitled to her own feelings, and right now, she feels _annoyed_, almost as much as, you know, terrified.

"Look, _Marcel_," she says, sounding profoundly bored because damn it, isn't she the greatest at playing subterfuge? Once upon a time Klaus scared her, a bit, and still she learned how to do this on a regular basis. So she nods in Tyler's direction and moves even closer to the newest Big Bad. "Tyler over there is just a friend. We had a little spat because he dragged me to the Big Easy for Spring Break. I wanted to go to Cancún, you see, but he said we'd have a blast here, with Mardi Gras an all. Except now he's ditching me for that wolf bitch that you saw giving me the evil eye. You know, the one who went out that door?"

"Hayley?" He arches an eyebrow and by _goodness_, it literally pains Caroline not to roll her eyes. So important is this girl that everybody knows who she is? Klaus's errand girl, it seems. Part of his pack. How freaking lovely.

Caroline's face remains impassive as she shrugs, falsely nonchalant. "She's a friend of Klaus, isn't she?"

_All in_.

It works, and Caroline's bites back a smile, her teeth crushing her tongue but _oh_, some small victories taste sweeter than blood, even. Marcel's brows shoot up in genuine surprise, like he either didn't expect her to _know_ Klaus, or, more probably, wasn't waiting for her to actually _admit_ to knowing him. She's left him, she knows, with little option but to pose the only question that can follow now, and so he does:

"You know Klaus?"

She chuckles, a low _bored_ puff of air jumping foolishly from her lungs. "Duh! Everybody knows Klaus!" Klaus is the stuff from a legend, isn't he? And isn't Caroline so lucky that he picked her out from the crowd last night? She shakes her head a bit coyly, rolls her eyes as if a bit timid, flushed—schools her cheeks to flare with a pretty blush. "I mean, of course I know who he is, who doesn't, right? But the thing is, _Marcel_, Klaus actually knows _me_, if you know what I mean. We went out last night, after Ty dumped me for that bitch, and he told me I could find him here today, so… I'm waiting for him."

With some luck, Hayley disappearing to go find Klaus is not something specifically related to Caroline. With some luck, that's just what she does every time Marcel shows his face in Klaus's place. It makes sense, doesn't it? If Hayley is so _loyal_ as both Klaus and Tyler assure her she is, she won't do something that might endanger Caroline. Right?

Marcel dragging words jerk her out of her thoughts as he leans closer, forcing her eyes onto his as he whispers. "Well, let me tell you a little secret, Caroline. You don't have to worry about your friend Tyler," he grins, cruelly. "The she-wolf that's caught his eye, well, stake me if she doesn't belong the boss upstairs, shortcake. Body and soul, if you catch my drift."

It lasts only half a second: the rush of hot-wired jealousy that surges through her veins; but then she realizes, it's just a chip trick, and she won't give this douchebag the satisfaction of reacting like he expects her to. He's baiting her, and she might look it, but she isn't your typical dumb blonde. Best case scenario, he believes her to be the fool she's only pretending to be, and hopes that she'll be stupid enough to get her heart broken, or at least cracked, if she learns that the big bad guy who took her home last night only wants her for a quick meaningless romp in the sack, while his true affections lay elsewhere. Worst case scenario? He knows or suspects the truth, and the wrong kind of reaction on her part, one single second of hesitation, the slightest misstep, and—

Before she can come up with a confident, dismissive _and_ indifferent reply, the small door behind the far end of the counter opens, and Klaus steps out, walking towards them with long, dauntless strides. Hayley slides from behind him, not even looking at Caroline as she disappears towards the other end of the bar, where Tyler is surely waiting for her. Klaus is by her side in a second; his eyes barely brush over her face before they settle on Marcel. He smiles coldly, pats his enemy in the back like they're the oldest of friends.

"Marcel, mate, to what do I owe the pleasure of you visiting my side of town?

Marcel returns his smile pointedly, but there's a strain in the folding skin over his cheekbones that wasn't there a second ago. "Klaus, man," he greets, cold despite the smile. "I guess you could say it is not really your side of town, is it?"

Of course, Klaus's dimpled smile only grows as he grins like an absolutely happy clown. "Oh, come on, Marcel. Be a good sport, will you? You were there with me when I build this city with my own hands, only for my own pleasure and entertainment. But let's not quarrel," he wrinkles his nose, softening the aggressive smile on his lips. "Have you met my new friend Caroline?"

The technique in manipulative conversation is flawless, and Caroline isn't as surprised as she is grateful. With just a couple of well-thought utterances, most likely perfectly integrated in the usual dynamic between them, Klaus has got Marcel all riled up about whose town they're in. Right now, and for as long as that lasts, Marcel has no care about Caroline. He doesn't even answer to Klaus's direct questions before Klaus attacks again, not granting a second of relief.

"Camille, sweetheart," he doesn't even look at her, keeps his eyes light and open and glued to Marcel. "The usual, I presume?"

Again, he doesn't have time to react before the beautiful Camille is spinning gracefully on her toes, bottle of bourbon in hand. "Sure," she beams, grabbing three tumblers and filling two of them to the rim before looking up at Caroline with a bright, honest smile. "You want?"

The girl's smile is so infectious that Caroline goes and forgets how Camille too has been perfectly trained by Klaus, and what Rebekah said about her feelings, and how she is only human, and there are at least a billion different ways Klaus might be taking advantage of her affections. Caroline smiles back, nodding. "Yes, thanks."

Funny, isn't it? The way Klaus's entire world works like a perfectly arquitectured puppet show, in which Caroline happens to be the only dissonant piece.

Like, until Klaus addressed her, Caroline hadn't even noticed that, the moment Marcel walked through the door, Camille had detached herself from the end of the counter that she seemed resolute not to abandon for as long as Caroline remained there. But since Marcel had approached her, Camille had been fluttering around them, going unnoticed.

She was clever. She was subtle. She was Klaus's.

Caroline swallows, pushes down unwanted thoughts, and straightens her back as Marcel's eyes travel back to her as he nurses his bourbon glass. He sharpens his smile, and lets his velvety voice linger. "I was just telling your lovely friend Caroline here that maybe she can try something new, to have her fun in the city. New Orleans is a magical place, with lots to offer to a young, _eager_ vampire like her. Lots better than the dog she was begging for scraps when I entered the place."

She knows what to do. She knows how to stay in character.

She scoffs shamelessly. "Oh, I _love _trying new things, don't I, Klaus?" She barely lets her eyes rest on him for second before she quickly redirects her biting smile to Marcel. "But don't go insulting my friends, okay? Just last week I was trying this _new thing_ and, that _dog_, as you say, well," she pauses, nodding towards the other end of the table where Tyler is standing, still surrounded by a handful a wolves. "He pulled out the heart of the _new thing_ I was trying."

Poor Noah, she steals a second to think. This is what the guy's been reduced to. A veiled fake threat in a mindless ploy that doesn't concern him at all, except it's the reason that he's dead.

Marcel laughs, predictably. Low and rumbling and _beautiful_. "Oh, cupcake. I can take him, and his entire pack of mutts, on my worst day."

"Oh, you think?" she challenges him, because honestly, what other answer can follow such douchery?

"Come on, children. I said let's not quarrel, didn't I?" Still smiling sort of like a maniac, Klaus takes a step closer to her, and tilts his head at Marcel. "Caroline here is merely defending her friends' honour—"

"Then maybe you should know that, going by what sweet Caroline's been sweet enough to share, her friend's been chatting up your wolf girl, _mate_," Marcel sneers. "Maybe you should have thought of a leash?"

There's a thought. Hayley on a leash. Though honestly? Caroline can't go and start thinking of what goes on in your typical wolfish 'fucking-into-submission' routine—not right now, as Klaus pulls his arm around her waist and actually jerks her closer, pressing her to his side.

"Caroline here's my girl," he drags with a slow smile, and _nope_, her heart isn't bouncing in her chest, what are you _on_? It's part of the game. Denial will get them burned. "But I hardly think you came here to discuss the current state of my sentimental being, did you?"

Without even blinking he catches Camille's eye, who's still standing nearby rinsing glasses. He barely nods, and quickly wiping her hands with a smelly-looking cloth, she spins around on her feet to refill the half-empty tumblers on the counter. Marcel's eyes follow her attentively, and his wide smile snakes to at last rest on her. "Aren't you the prettiest bartender in town?"

She returns his flirtatious grin openly. "You always say that, old man," she sing-songs, playful. "But they're just words."

"Will you stop bugging the ladies, mate?" Klaus cuts short the flirting, exhaling exasperated. "We all know that, lovely as they are, they're not really much to _your_ liking, are they? I'm sure this time of year is awfully busy for you, so please let me ask you again. What brings you here?"

Marcel raises his glass, smirking. "The bourbon. The company," he winks at Camille, unperturbed by Klaus's words. "The King of New Orleans needs to get away from the bustling court every once in a while, right? And I heard rumours that the number of wolves has been increasing alarmingly around the area the past two weeks and, you know, had to come and see for myself. Make sure you weren't entertaining any funny ideas.

Klaus's face is a mask of plaster. "Well, just keep the children tucked in at home, don't let them stray into the woods unsupervised, and they'll be safe from the big bad wolves prowling the streets."

Marcel actually laughs, and he sounds genuinely amused. "It's a party outside, man. It's _Mardi Gras_, and it's been a while since your last time, hasn't it? Take your new girl out in the dark, and show her a good time." He stands back from the counter, his hand gripping the edge before nodding at Caroline. "If you get tired of so much bark and so little bite, sweetheart, ask around. My people will open your eyes to a kind of magic way beyond the wildest of your imagination."

Klaus's arm tightens around her, and she presses herself closer against him instinctively, as Marcel speeds up towards the door in a deliberate gesture of defiance toward the pack of werewolves that are watching his every move. As soon as he's out of the door, Klaus taps the counter nervously, and Camille stops in front of him. He raises his eyebrows in question. "What do you think?"

Camille shrugs, drying up a glass with the same smelly-looking cloth she uses to wipe her hands. "It's hard to tell but, you know, I'd keep my eyes peeled." Immediately discarding the cloth, she turns her face to Caroline, and a big smile breaks on her face. "Hello, by the way. I'm Camille."

This second time, it's a little less easy to smile back at her. There are a million awful thoughts battling for dominance inside her head. Marcel. Klaus and Marcel. The wolves prowling the streets and Marcel's _children_.Hayley. Klaus and Hayley and Caroline's rolling stomach. Freaking _Tyler_ and his stupid ridiculous insane decision to stay with Klaus's pack—just like that. Seriously. Camille, her pretty sundress, her lovely blond waves, and why Klaus might feel the need to _consult_ with her after whatever the hell just went on between him and Marcel—those are simply things she has literally no mental space to worry about right now.

Like, she went to bed with Klaus last night. Again.

That's how much she can't worry about Camille.

So she extends her hands, and shakes Camille's warmly, offering a smile of her own. "Caroline," she says, unmindfully resting her back against Klaus's chest while his grip tightens around her waist.

—

**tbc.**

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**Thanks for reading, guys! I hope you weren't too bored!**

**So let's see, I wanted to comment on a few things, but I do promise these long notes will not be a regular thing. I know they're irritating.**

1) It took me longer to update this time and, I'm afraid, this will be the regular trend from now on. I will keep on updating regularly – at least one a week! – but real life has exploded in my face, and I really need to start doing better and working harder on my thesis ;)

2) This chapter was supposed to include a long intense conversation between Klaus and Caroline, about Hayley, and Tyler, Klaus's pack, etc. Obviously, that had to be moved on to the next chapter, so if something isn't making too much sense right now, that's because we still don't really know the full story! I don't intend to drag the Hayley more than necessary, but Klaus's pack is a big part of the life he's building in New Orleans, and thus a significant part of this story.

3) Some of you have complained that some parts of this story don't read too easily, that there's not enough dialogue, or that Caroline is too passive. I think that you're right, and that I've abused the free indirect speech that allows us to know every thought that goes inside Caroline's head without her verbalizing it (the way she has to do it in canon so we can know what she's thinking or feeling). Of course, the deeper I go into Caroline's rambling thoughts—especially in Ch. 6, where her mind was literally spinning the whole time—the less easily readable the story will be. I apologize for this, but sometimes, the point of a scene is precisely to get inside the stream of Caroline's thoughts, messy as they may be. I will however try not to make her character fade inside her own head and out of whatever scene she is present at.

4) **To EL**: I can't reply to guest comments through PM, and I cannot answer to every guest comment in the actual chapters, because that's annoying for the majority of readers, to have author's notes that are longer than the fic. I actually addressed your comments on Ch. 5 in this post at tumblr ( post/45671638118/in-the-off-chance-that-the-guest-reviewer-asking). Please, if you have questions that you want me to answer, ask me anonymously at my tumblr (theelliedoll), and I promise I will reply. Just not through here.

5) I changed the first chapter a bit. Took out the Mumford & Sons lyrics, and included a tiny first section that's actually a quotation from _A Streetcar Name Desire_. Because it kind of expresses everything this story is about, and because I'm just that awful and pretentious.

**And that is all, folks! For now ;) **

**Drop me a line if there's something you'd like to comment on, or talk about!**


	8. Chapter 8

**Hello guys! I'm sorry i****t took me a bit longer to update this time, but I was away for a few days. If you follow me on tumblr and you read the preview of this chapter, I hope the complete version won't disappoint ;) ****As always, I want to thank everyone reading, following, favoriting and commenting. I don't know how that happened, but I feel like I know all my reviewers now, and somehow talking to you through reviews and pms has become the best part of writing this story, so really – thanks for your kindness and your thoughtfulness, and for keeping me enthusiastic and committed to this story. ;)**

**This chapter is dedicated to LDR. In fact, the whole story is yours. Take it! 3 **

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**Chapter 8**

**.-.**

Letting go of Camille's hand, Caroline struggles to keep the smile on her face, but a rush of confusing thoughts and impatient questions are piling up in her head. Before she can put any order in the mess clotting her brain and strangling her words, however, Rebekah and Stefan are suddenly standing beside them, a deep frown folding Rebekah's forehead.

"What did he want?"

Klaus barely rolls his shoulders at his sister. "Nothing. He was just sniffing around, as usual." He turns to the counter, shaking his head indifferently, and only when he does, Caroline notices that Stefan and Rebekah aren't the only ones who've come running to hear the tale of Marcel's unannounced visit to _The Howlin' Wolf_. Hayley's standing right there too, next to Camille, leaning on the counter like she actually owns the place. She returns Klaus's gaze with a raised eyebrow. "Bad news?"

Caroline can't help herself. _Really_, she can't.

"Hayley," she grins, sickeningly sweet, "_so_ nice to see you again. Been a while, hasn't it? How've you been?"

Hayley's smile is as big as it is fake and malicious. "Great. You? I'm sorry about the last time we saw each other," she fake-pouts, lips pursed and brows pulled tight. "I had to go save your boyfriend's life. You understand, right?"

Caroline's sharpened smile doesn't falter one bit. Her _boyfriend_ her ass. Hayley's got another thing coming if she believes she can taunt Caroline that easily. "Of course I do. It does help to have friends in high places, doesn't it? Even if that means pretending to care about twelve innocent people _of your own kind_ only so you can send them to the slaughter." She leans over the counter, conspiratorial, but keeps her hips pressed against Klaus. He tightens the grip of his arm around her waist, and Caroline's smile softens despite herself. She tilts her head towards the pack standing at the far end of the bar. "I wonder, do your new friends know what a true loyal wolf you are at heart?"

"Care…"

Tyler has joined their quickly growing group, Caroline notices, just in time to whisper a little warning. It's pointless. Before Hayley can think of hitting her back, Klaus intervenes, his voice calm but authoritative, unquestionable. "Hayley, love. Just tell the rest to go about as usual, will you? Marcel was just suggesting a muzzle until Ash Wednesday. He's worried you children might spoil his fun, but I assured him you'll be on your best behaviour."

He nods pointedly, sugar-coating the order with a charming smile, and Hayley bows her head, nods, and turns away without another word.

Jeez, it'd be creepy—

—if it wasn't so freaking _satisfying_.

"Caroline, let's go get some fresh air, shall we?"

She barely has time to flip her smile at Stefan as an improvised _bye-bye_ before Klaus's dragged her out into the busy streets, crammed as usual with the ever-partying crowd. _So much for fresh air_, Caroline thinks, as immediately the late afternoon multitude swallows them, hot and thick and so loud that her ears buzz, her heart pandering as he rushes her upriver, only slowing down their steps when they reach the lordlier, quieter streets.

"Where are we going?" she pants, her breathing laboured more out of surprise than exertion. She is a vampire, but still she struggles to catch back her breath. The crowd always overwhelms her. "Why the rush?"

She doesn't understand Klaus's sudden urgency, and the exhilarating effects of her quick moral victory against Hayley vanish as quickly as he notices the grave expression on his face, and the events and revelations of the afternoon assault her again. Despite his words of reassurance at the bar, despite his fake dismissal, Klaus is worried.

Who _is_ this Marcel?

"Home," he swallows, his eyes briefly darting away. "I'm sorry, sweetheart, but we're not going out tonight."

Caroline frowns but, without another word, Klaus starts walking again, barely offering a quick nod to indicate her to follow, and Caroline finds herself at loss for words. She doesn't say a word all the way back to his house. She doesn't know what to say, where to begin asking him, and so she keeps quiet until they're sitting at the dinner table, dishes have been served, and fresh warm blood poured into his extravagant, gorgeous, deliriously tempting Bohemian glasses.

They're alone, at last; the help has disappeared as if they were spectres conjured up only to serve him when needed, and maybe it infuriates her a bit, his sumptuous, carefree display of boundless power and wealth and arrogance. Or maybe it's just nervousness because, guess what? He's fidgeting, and, to her knowledge, Klaus Mikaelson, the Original Indestructible Hybrid, simply does _not_ fidget. He doesn't worry, and he doesn't show any sign of weakness or hesitation. But now he isn't even looking at her; he eats and drinks and doesn't say a word, and _seriously_, what is happening? Only last night they were-

She huffs, clenches her eyes shut to drive those memories away, and crosses her arms over her chest, leaning on the backrest of her tall chair. _Whatever_, she bites her bottom lip._ Let's get this over with_.

"So are you sleeping with Hayley?"

It's (maybe) a weird place to start, certainly a rather awkward and unexpectedly painful issue to begin with, she can admit that. But the thought hasn't stopped bugging her since Tyler suggested that well, submitting might entail... other things. She keeps imagining it and, honestly, how does he expect her to _eat_ with those images running through her head?

At least Klaus has the grace not to choke on his steak. He gets credit for that.

He does, however, look at her like she just sprouted a second head. "Excuse me? How could you possibly think that I—I thought that you and I—last night—"

She cuts him off with a quick roll of her eyes, arms still pressed tightly against herself. "Okay, let me rephrase that. _Have _you slept with Hayley?"

The shocked, puzzled expression on his face cracks, crumbles, and melts away. He holds her gaze in his, and breathes, "Yes, I did. Once." His mouth twitches and he shakes his head, letting go of her eyes. "It was a while ago, more or less around the time when you told me you'd hate me forever for chasing Tyler out of town."

The dry laugh that erupts from her throat is so bitter that Caroline has to gulp down the taste of bile to keep herself from retching. "Yeah, I remember. You said you had no choice because Tyler wanted to kill you. Funny though, how that whole liberated hybrids fiasco was Hayley's little trick but, you know, instead of having her backstabber's rotten heart handed to her, she got a jolly ride on your merry-go-round. Makes _total_ sense."

Is she rambling? Is she screaming? She honestly can't tell.

Klaus takes the glass of blood to his mouth, looking more relaxed the more unhinged she gets. "It does make sense, love. Tyler was part of my pack, Caroline. I made him. I set him free from the curse of the moon. And he thanked me by setting up a trap to bury me in concrete." He sounds totally calm and composed, which isn't his usual deal, which only serves to unnerve her further. He reminds her of their terrible failures with a coldheartedness that makes her shudder, his voice and demeanour neutral like he's simply telling her a story of long ago. "Hayley, a wolf-loving, vampire-hating she-wolf I barely knew at the time, took _my _side, pursuing her self-interest, of course, but never had a thought to harm me. She simply cooked up an ambush against my undead hybrids, and consequently against Tyler. Are you asking him why he's giving her the time of day, or are you only concerned about _my_ sexual past these days? I mean, that one is a particularly long story, sweetheart."

Towards the end of his abrasive speech, the impassiveness on his face begins to morph into an evil grimace of self-satisfaction, and honestly, Caroline has to sit on her hands to keep herself from punching the smug grin off his mouth. At this point, she doesn't know if she's fuming because he fucked Hayley, or because somehow that bit of information is upsetting her more than the fact that Tyler, who has even more reasons to hate Hayley than Klaus will ever have, is actually rekindling their epic friendship born and nurtured in the freaking Appalachians. Ugh. Why must Hayley exist at all? What is up with that girl?

Caroline narrows her eyes to the point where her sight gets so blurry she can no longer see Klaus's arrogant smile. "Right. So she got you the cure, told you about Tyler's plan to kick your ass, and consequently earned her freedom. Okay. I can buy that. Maybe. But that doesn't really explain why you took her to bed."

His eyes round like saucers and Caroline scoffs because really, how dares he look _cute_ in the middle of her petty jealous meltdown. He actually clears his throat. "Why, Caroline, love. The usual reasons."

She rolls her eyes so fast that her head actually aches. "Don't let this get to your head, _dick_, but, like… can't you do better than _Hayley_ if it's just, you know, _the usual reasons_?"

He shows her the respect of not turning her question into an embarrassing joke, and she kind of hates him a little harder for that. Because this is really not the time to be kind or considerate towards her feelings; she can take it, she's a big girl, and she _so _doesn't care as much as she's giving the impression that she does. Really. She has no trouble mirroring his gesture when he extends his hand over the table to grab his chocolate pear pudding, cradling the small bow over his lap as he leans back on his chair. As if getting ready for more story-telling.

"Would it suffice if I said no?" he exhales around a mouthful of pudding, making her look away so she doesn't get inappropriately distracted. "I needed her to submit to me, so I killed two birds with a stone."

Uggggggh.

_Gross_. She stuffs her face with three consecutive spoonfuls of sweet, delicious, sublime, sinful pudding to overcompensate for the sudden, violent urge to barf. She speaks with her mouth full in a rather childish effort to gross him out in return, and maybe irritate him a bit. "I thought you liked birds," she smiles through chocolate-stained teeth. "Also, you're _gross_ and you make me want to vomit."

_I needed her to submit to me_, he says. God, she really doesn't need that image popping up in her head, but it still does and, uggh. _So gross_.

"There's nothing gross about it, love," he slurs, low and husky and, honest-to-God, she's never hated him harder, for daring be seductive and _hot_ about the whole nasty affair. "It's simply pure, unrepressed animal instinct. Me and Hayley, we could have sat down for hours and talked about the innumerable advantages that submitting to my power as alpha could bring her, but the basic facts are that one, I needed the wolf in her to bend to my will, and two, wild beasts don't sit down to negotiate and talk it over"

Caroline presses her lips, because—"Nope, not working, sorry. Still gross."

He sighs, setting his pudding on the table and folding his hands over his knees, as if gathering up the patience that usually evades him. "Okay, maybe it wasn't an entirely animalistic affair," he concedes, tilting his smile and erasing the mocking grin off his lips. "Before Hayley submitted to me, she was completely alone in the world, and so was I. No hybrids, no family, no friends…Wolves are pack animals, Caroline, as I'm sure you know. I didn't care for Hayley—in fact, I don't care much for her now, either—and, believe me, the lack of feelings is mutual. Sex was the only way to connect, and if I could make her submit, she'd be loyal to me. _Truly _loyal, forever, and in a way that no one else had been, before. It worked for her, too. She had never been loyal to anyone before, either. Never got to enjoy the pure bliss of surrendering yourself completely to someone else, and simply doing as they ask. For us wolves, love, loneliness can be really crippling." His eyes stab her like daggers, dark and bloody and torturous. "Haven't you ever slept with someone who meant nothing to you, Caroline, to make yourself feel better?"

He opens up and closes down in less than it takes her to blink. Weren't they talking of his loneliness and, let's be frank, his sorta kinda _pathetic_ desperation, when he decided to go to bed with Hayley of all people? Now they're suddenly talking about that one time Caroline felt so down, so alone, so desperate to figure out the scorching bonfire of her conflicting feelings—that she showed up at Klaus's doorstep and basically begged him to please, take her to bed and get it over with.

_Get it over with._ Isn't that hilarious? Look at her now. No, seriously. _Do it_. Look at her _now_. So over it—_not_.

"Let me see if I got that right," she says, her foot tapping impatiently on the hardwood floor, because she's halfway to freaking out big time, and she really doesn't want to. "You absolutely _had _to sleep with Hayley so she submitted to your freaky alpha wolfish authority, is that right? So… what? You do this with every werewolf who joins your pack or just the hot ones?"

He raises an eyebrow at her, clearly unimpressed. "I would appreciate it if you didn't mock me or my pack, love. I'm not a complete moron, I understand the concept of sexual fidelity, but I owed you nothing of the kind at that time."

She scoffs again, because, really, _not the point_. The point is, yes, she would have slept with Noah at some point… _if Tyler hadn't ripped his heart out just because_. She did try to get back together with Tyler after she slept with Klaus. This isn't about sexual fidelity. This is about the mess they're in, and how everyone's been screwed over again and again while Klaus and Hayley were not only screwing each other but actually finding solace from their soul-crushing loneliness while at it. How's that even fair?

"Caroline, love," he tries again, his voice warmer and gentler this time. "You're a vampire who doesn't hurt people. I might be a wolf, but I don't let my animalistic urges get the better of me. I can use my instincts when I need to, but I've been a vampire for over a thousand years, sweetheart. I have perfect self-control, and no wish or intention to go to bed with anyone but you, for as long as you'll have me."

She looks away from him. Wouldn't it be so much easier if she hadn't slept with him twice already, so she could simply sneer at him, detachedly—_you wish_? But the harsh truth is that he is right and the fact that she's jealous of Hayley is only adding fuel to the fire, so maybe it's time to move the conversation along. He slept with Hayley just once, a year ago, and now she's just one in a pack of wolves that, from the little that she knows, she guesses are his most lethal weapon against this Marcel dude—who Caroline can't figure out because he seemed like the world's most shameless flirt that ever was for a second, before he actually _metamorphosed_ into something much darker right before her eyes. She's not forgotten Klaus's worried expression, or his fidgeting when they got back to his house.

"So… who's this Marcel's that's got your panties in a twist?" She asks, as casually as she can pretend to sound, focusing her attention for a moment on the metallic sound of her spoon scraping at the bottom of her empty pudding bowl. "What did he really want?"

She feels him clench up immediately, even though she's only looking at him out of the corner of her eye. "No one you need to worry about."

She leaves her bowl on the table, and turns on her chair to look at him more directly. "Well, if he's gonna try to make a pass at me again, then I should—"

"He wasn't making a pass at you," Klaus snaps suddenly. "You're not his usual type."

Caroline frowns. "What do you mean, is he gay or something?"

It's not like she's that full of herself, but really, the guy was totally hitting on her. That was the whole thing going on. She's not conceited enough to believe it was really about her, it was most likely only a jab at Klaus, some sort of macho power play, but _dude_, the guy was chatting her up.

Klaus returns her confused gazed impatiently. "What do you care? I told you," he sighs, his eyes closing in a gesture of blatant annoyance, "you don't have to worry about it."

"Klaus—"

"Marcel is not interested in women unless he's planning to eat them," Klaus interrupts her unasked question. "As far as he should know, you are nothing but a very pretty dinner to me, whether it takes me a day or week to kill you. He was moving in on my territory, because that's what he does."

For some reason, she's still frowning. "So he's gay?"

Klaus rubs his eyes, sighs, shakes his head. "Well, he certainly had a preference for nicely-groomed young men in the eighteenth century, yes. I'm afraid that now he's only got time for his witches, though."

There's a strange, unexpected bitterness in the way he says _his witches_. It makes Caroline wonder—

"Are the witches his children? I mean, you told him to keep his children tucked in bed—"

The hard-edges of Klaus's tense expression softly fold into a confused smile. "I meant Marcel's army of vampires—one he's been gathering for the last two centuries, which I allowed because I thought he'd always remain loyal to me. He owes me everything he is, after all."

Hey, remember that time Klaus tried to build himself an army of nearly indestructible hybrids? Look how that ended. He had to settle for a dozen, and those poor unfortunate souls were nothing but a random wolf girl's pawns. Now this guy Marcel's got himself an army of his own—

"But if he has an army of vampires—"

"A vampire army is nothing. I can destroy them one-handed," he says, his jaw clenched in anger. "But the witches… I wasn't lying when I told you New Orleans is a magical place, Caroline, but all that magic is in Marcel's hands. He's been snuffling every witch's powers, restraining them, keeping their magic well guarded… just waiting for the right time to unleash it. I thought you'd be safe during Mardi Gras. Marcel's the captain of the oldest supernatural krewe, all the city's eyes are on him until Wednesday. He wouldn't try anything at the bloody Municipal Auditorium in front of the entire social elite, but—" He closes his eyes, twists up his face. "Caroline, if he finds out about you, if he thinks for even a second that he has an advantage over me now, he might try to do something stupid."

He lets his words trail off, and as his eyes search for her, loaded with words that he doesn't want to say, she feels her lungs constricting painfully inside her chest. It makes her look down, makes her say without thinking, "Maybe it's not too late. I can leave, let Marcel believe you've killed me already and—"

_But Tyler_—

_But Klaus_—

He doesn't give her a second to dwell on what she's said. Moving at supernatural speed, he grabs her arm and pulls her towards him. She lands unceremoniously on his lap; the dizzying speed of his movements throws her off-balance and she has to hold onto his shoulders not to fall down. His hands close around her waist immediately, and for the tiniest fraction of a second he rests his forehead against hers, lets his breath brush over her nose before pulling back, and sinking his dead-serious eyes deep inside her soul.

"I meant what I said, Caroline. I don't want you to go." His voice is harder than one would expect, given the circumstances of his reluctant plea. He sounds more demanding than tender, and there's an obvious edge of angry desperation that crawls out of his mouth and snakes into her chest, gripping her heart, stifling the air in her windpipes. "I will not allow and overreaching malcontent of all people to dictate my life. He may wear his make-believe crown and his princely costume as much as he likes, but the attire will only beguile those who don't have eyes to see, love. I am the King. I _will_ find a way to neutralize Marcel's witches, and I _will_ kill him."

She nods. What else can she do, but offer a curtsy, kneel down before His Majesty? But still she doesn't understand—

"Rebekah said things were okay, right after graduation," she whispers, bending her words so they soothe him as they slide over his mouth, only inches away. "She said you'd won, that you'd put your enemies in their place."

Klaus chuckles out a smile. "We thought the vampires were the problem. We underestimated the threat of Marcel's witches, but Elijah has been working with a rebel— Sophie, lovely spirited girl, you'll meet her soon. They have people inside. We're getting closer to defeating him. As I said, _you don't have to worry about this_."

Caroline swallows, doesn't nod this time. "But you _are_ worried."

Klaus's hands slide down her hips, moving from her waist to caress her legs, burrowing beneath the hem of her skirt. She wants to roll her eyes at him because _seriously_? But then his fingers begin massaging into her flesh, firm but tender. "I worry about you, Caroline," he whispers, his smile creeping closer to her lips. "It's a nasty side effect."

Of what, he lets her know with the touch of his hands, curling inwards around the insides of her thighs as his smile widens and his eyes pierce her, callous, burning a hole in her head through which to pour the flood of memories of last night, only a few hours away, the feel of his skin, the taste of his mouth, the searing devotion of his hands—

"You're trying to distract me," she protests feebly, pathetically, her voice a flimsy strangled thread.

He grins maliciously, chuckle huskily, and immediately moves his hands up her skirt to grab her hips, lifting her up effortlessly so she can straddle him. "I'm not," he retorts smugly, as soon as her crotch is squarely pressed against him.

She bites back a moan, and mentally punches herself because damn _him. _He looks so stupidly pleased with himself when her hands cup his cheeks that she really wants to smite the ridiculously tempting-and-infuriating-in-equal-measure grin off his mouth, but in the end—Heavens only know why, really—she decides to kiss it away, grab it with her own smile and swallow it down, her tongue blissfully rolling down her throat the delirious aftertaste of fresh rich blood mixed up with pear chocolate pudding.

She thinks (her last thought) that it might be the way he looks at her—

—the deep blue, dark green glint in his eyes, the crinkles of his smile—

—one hot puff of air before his fingers crawl deftly under the lacy hem of her underwear, twist ruthlessly inside her before she can even breathe out this name. A quick, soft jerk of his forearm against her, and he sends her flying into his chest; and she falls boneless, burning, moulding seamlessly into him.

—

**tbc.**

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**Thanks for reading, guys! **

**I know this chapter was a bit shorter, and mostly exposition and boring stuff, but ****next****: the plot thickens when the Mikaelsons are unexpectedly invited to a masquerade ball. And we'll meet Sophie, my current favourite new character from _The Originals_.**

**As always, drop me a line or two if you have any comments or feel like talking ;) thank you!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Hello guys, here is Chapter 9! Thank you for reading as always, and for following and reviewing, and leaving me messages and questions here and on tumblr. The best part of this whole thing is really getting to know you, and talking to you – so thank you, it means the world to hear what you think of my story! Hope this chapter won't bore you to tears!**

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**Chapter 9**

**.-.**

She's wearing Klaus's dark gray Henley and nothing underneath when she enters the kitchen, hoping there are pancakes for breakfast, cream and corn syrup along with the freshly warmed blood she's been smelling since she opened her eyes to an empty bed—because, well, she's been drinking too much blood lately, too fresh, and food helps like nothing else when it comes to suppressing the killing-people urges that come with her nature, still. So _yes_, she's strolling along Klaus's big-ass colonial mansion half naked, because she's hungry and won't blush because of the reason why, _shut up_; and _yes, _maybe it's not the brightest idea ever (it's not like Klaus lives alone), but she _really_ is hungry and her clothes are in another room—_yes_, two doors and a small parlour away, _shut up_. She's not stupid. She's listened carefully, and the help is occupied in Rebekah's wing, which means that Rebekah and most likely Stefan are out already. Elijah hasn't been home once since Caroline got here; for all she knows, he might not even live in the house at all. So whoever's in the kitchen flipping though the pages of a newspaper has to be Klaus, and she is _so_ hungry—

—but, _oh oh_.

Turns out, it isn't Klaus, after all.

_Damn it_.

Caroline's feet stop dead and she stumbles, swallowing, holding onto the kitchen's doorframe not to make it worse, and sort of paralyzed in the spot while she schools the nervous smile that creeps up on her to stop shaking ridiculously.

She half whispers, half gasps. "Elijah—"

"Caroline. Good morning," he smiles back at her, looking up from the newspaper and standing up immediately. He doesn't look flustered or embarrassed at all; his eyes don't stray one bit, and he does nothing whatsoever to make her feel uncomfortable—which, of course, has the opposite effect. Her knees begin quivering with the urge to run, but Elijah goes on speaking; "Blood or coffee?" he asks kindly, his voice warm and gentle as he moves toward the counter, completely unaffected by the thick awkwardness that, to Caroline's perception, is clotting up the room, making her ears plug.

When he finally turns away to grab a mug, she lets out a breath she hadn't realizes she was holding. He's all smooth and classy in the way he allows her some privacy without once—or in anyway—acknowledging the source of her very near nakedness, but his poise only makes her feel more self-conscious. She bites her bottom lip, tries to swallow down a jittery nervous laugh, and wonders for a second or two if asking—scratch that, _begging_—for both, blood and coffee, would be terribly impolite of her.

Well, fuck it, really.

He's already seen her parading herself in nothing but his brother's shirt.

So she holds her chin up even if he isn't looking at her and clears her throat and takes a step backwards, beginning to retreat towards the hall but painting a confident smile on her face. "Both, um, please. I'm—I'm going to go upstairs for a just a moment,"—_put on some pants_—"I'll be back in a blink."

She _is_ back in a blink.

Or two. Maybe three.

She flashes up the stairs in a breath and quickly puts on a pair of jeans and a yellow top, stepping quickly into her bathroom to brush her teeth, wash her face and lace up her curls in a messy pony tail. She rushes through the whole process—she's _so _hungry, for heavens' sake—

She's speeding down the marble stairs so fast she could flying when the front door suddenly opens, and Klaus bursts in like a bull in a China shop, knocking the hardwood open with such fury that, flinching, Caroline jumps back up at least four steps, afraid that the door will come unhinged and actually fly towards her, knock her down, break apart in a hundred make shift stakes, and stab her through the heart accidentally, killing her.

That's _how_ angry Klaus looks.

He's clutching an elegant pearl white envelope in his hand, and as soon as he sees her his eyes widen, his jaw twitches, and he points her with a raised finger. "Pack your bags," she snarls. "You're leaving."

He flashes into the kitchen before she can say a word. Before she can even process what he's said._Packing? Leaving?_

Elijah's holding up the envelope in his hand when Caroline enters the kitchen again. Immediately, with a quick nod of his head, he points her in the direction of two steaming mugs and a plate if French toast that are waiting for her on the kitchen isle. Her stomach growls, but her eyes keep darting from Klaus to Elijah and back to Klaus, and then maybe they occasionally jump to the mysterious envelope, and no one is saying anything and her stomach keeps growling and so with a quick shrugh, Caroline picks the blood mug first. She downs it in one long gulp as she watches Elijah finally taking out a golden card from inside the envelope, a deep frown wrinkling his forehead as he reads it, exhaling worriedly.

With his brows pulled tight, he leaves both the envelope and the card on the counter right by the microwave, smacking his lips annoyingly before nodding at Klaus. "I'll go get Sophie," is all he says, before turning around on his feet and leaving Klaus and Caroline alone in the kitchen.

Immediately, Klaus picks up the card and hands it to her. "He knows," he tells her, the two simple words ground out painfully through clenched teeth.

Putting down the mug, Caroline looks down at the card. It's beautifully embroidered with a thread of gold, and it feels impossible soft to the touch. Like a very old parchment; smooth as skin. She swallows, and her fingers trembling slightly as she reads.

_Soirée Dansante._

_Join us for this year blood-drenched Mardi Gras Masquerade at the Varieties Theatre, and be illuminated by the revels of the original Tableau Vivant of the Mistick Krewe of Comus—_

—_Báthory Erzsébet._

It takes Caroline at least ten seconds to realize that the dark red ink the ancient-looking letters have been carved in—

—it isn't ink at all.

"What is—?" She frowns; clears her throat; holds up the invitation to him as if he hadn't seen it already. "What does this mean?"

_He knows_. But _how_? And why is Klaus so sure that he knows—

"It's a trap," he answers, severely. His eyes avoid her, choose instead to look inquisitively to the breakfast Elijah has prepared for her. His voice drops, but the unashamed command comes out firm and certain. "You have to leave."

Yeah—

—he sort of has said that already, but, you know, _why_?

Also, yes, like that's going to happen.

But that's a fight to be fought later, so she decides to start with the basics, leaning back on the kitchen isle and resting her hands on her hips. "Why?" she asks.

Klaus's eyes narrow angrily, but Caroline doesn't flinch. Not this time. Not again. She pulls her eyebrows high in pretend calm expectation, and doesn't react when his voice raises. "Haven't you heard what I just said, love? He knows."

"So?" She actually shrugs. "You said the secrecy would stop if I stayed-?"

She catches herself too late. Of course.

He takes a step closer to her, and just with a stride he has her cornered, almost pinned to the kitchen isle, trapped if only his arms would close around her to grip the edge of the counter and ensnare her like prey. His question falls heavy as a headstone when he whispers, "Are you staying?"

_Forever_, he means. That was always the deal. She stays for a week and pretends she's nobody, and then, they'll talk. She stays with him or she goes to live her life without him, for as long as she can pull that off.

Until she's ready to come back. For good.

But his eyes will remain on her. Every step she takes; every move she makes

He is just lovely creepy like that.

His deep, broken laugh, though—

—-it effectively breaks her heart a little, as surely intended; but still he doesn't falter in his authority, used as he is after a thousand years, to staying forever in his own way, and have his will imposed on everyone, no matter what. "Yeah, that's what I thought."

_Are you staying?_

"Klaus—"

Because you see, she doesn't want to leave—

"No, Caroline," he cuts her off, his lips twitching irritably. "We've already talked about this. I won't make you stay against your will, but if you're leaving—if you're going back to Mystic Falls with your friends and your mother, then I won't be able to protect you myself. No one can know—"

"I know that! You've said that a million times, and—" and where is her anger coming from? It's not the thought of leaving him. It's not the thought of going back home, and _not_ being with him. It's not. She tells that to herself a couple of times, tries to slow down her breathing, and starts again. "I'm supposed to be your entertainment for the week, right? Well, then take me to the stupid freaky gross party and just—"

"It's a trap."

"You don't know that."

"Of course I know that."

"No, you don't, Klaus," she groans, frustrated. "He can't know. You don't even know yourself, for God's sake. I don't have the slightest idea of what we're doing here, so how can this Marcel person know? He can only suspect, and if I disappear now mysteriously, after you've received the invitation... it's only going to seem more suspicious."

He doesn't say anything. His jaw sets and his Adam's apple bobs up and down, but he doesn't say a thing. Caroline takes that as a small victory, and goes in for the final strike.

"Let's say I leave, and he tracks your guys. So he finds me, but I'm a thousand miles away. What then?" She's leaning closer, inches from his face, unfazed by his less-than-intimidating towering over her. "I thought you weren't going to let this rebellious insignificant minion dictate your life—"

He clenches his eyes shut, and Caroline can _see_ his inner struggle, his resistance. He doesn't want to admit defeat, but his voice breaks—

"It's too soon."

You don't say? She crosses her arms over her chest and scoffs. "Well, maybe. But I'm not going back to what things were like before. If you want me gone, then set Tyler free. I'll go back to college, and we'll find a way when it's not _too soon_."

It's a low blow; a dirty trick, asking him to spare Tyler now. But it matches nicely the bitter edge of her words, the uninvited feeling of rejection that taints her disdainful retort. He wants her gone and, how do you figure? It actually hurts her feelings (for a whole second) that apparently she came down here for a quick fix and now he's all cool with sending her away. It doesn't last, though, the bitter resentment. Soon enough she starts feeling a bit horrible, as she watches his face short of crumble, his eyes hardening, hurt. He shakes his head and hides away, and Caroline's stomach lurches because he looks like a wounded animal just for a moment, and it isn't _fair_ at all, how pathetically he already _owns_ her.

"If you aren't with me—" he murmurs, so low, emotions so clumsily hidden; "—Tyler is my safest bet to keep you safe, Caroline."

Funnily, it's the first time that the thought occurs to her—that Klaus hasn't compelled Tyler to protect her (only) as a form of sick, twisted revenge. That this isn't a wicked game Klaus is playing with them. That it actually hurts _him_, and perverse as it might be in its core, for Klaus, allowing Tyler to be the one to protect her—even if annihilating his own free will in the process—is as close as it gets to a noble sacrifice in the name of true love.

It leaves her unarmed, the realization. Unarmed and baffled and not the nth time cursing the cruel fates that have landed her where she stands, in front of a destiny that, if you ask her, has found her at least four or five centuries before she was ready, and capable of handling it properly.

She feels like crying, and it only quickens her anger. "Keep me safe from _what_?" she hisses. "From Marcel and his little evil wicked witches of the South? The same witches who terrify _you_ so much that your big bloodied hybrid hands are shaking?"

He fists them by his side, smothers the trembling of his fingers with a growl that almost swallows her whole. "I am not afraid of them!" And suddenly, he is screaming as he falls apart, not that late in the morning, in the middle of his fancy, modern, fully-equipped kitchen. "I'm scared for _you_. I've never been in such a weakened position before, I don't know how to handle myself. I was never supposed to care—never supposed to _lo_—"

The front door opens, the screeching wood accompanied by a violent whoosh of air, and before Caroline can even process what Klaus is shouting in her face, Stefan and Rebekah are standing right there with them in the middle of the kitchen, breathing laboured and eyes wide open.

Rebekah's eyes are moving up and down Caroline's body, brows wrinkled in concentration like she's actually inspecting her for damage. "Good," she breathes out, "he hasn't killed you yet."

Caroline swallows, eyes darting to Stefan. He returns her gaze, frowning, and well, this is _awkward_. Does he really think that Klaus was going to hurt her? How much of their screaming contest did they hear? Stefan's brow is all wrinkled and he look concerned, but that's normal for him, right? He doesn't seem too worked up, and Caroline can only hope he's simply feeling all Zen and relaxed after a late breakfast with Rebekah that hopefully included genuine French croissants and not, you know, French tourists.

"Rebekah—" Klaus breaks the deafening silence with a low warning that seeps out of his constant, low growling.

Rebekah perches her hands on her hips, and raises her eyebrows at Klaus like a middle school teacher would do to reprimand a misbehaving child. "What? You were screaming like a banshee. Aren't we supposed to be discrete about this whole forbidden affair you two have going on? I'm pretty sure Caroline's _mum_ heard you back in Mystic Falls."

"Rebekah." This time, it's Stefan who utters the warning. This time, it actually works—and it might Rebekah's fondness for Stefan, or the fact that his voice comes out remarkably softer than Klaus's. He immediately turns towards Caroline when Rebekah rolls her eyes. He tilts his chin questioningly, but manages to keep all trace of suspicion off his voice when he asks, "Everything okay?"

Miraculously unwilling to engage in yet another pissing contest, Klaus barely grunts, "No"—before picking up the invitation and handing it to Rebekah. Her eyes immediately widen, and she gasps loudly. "Oh, no."

Caroline feels torn between the urge to succumb to the foreboding feeling coiling in her stomach, the more biting the more people react to the goddamned invitation as if it announced the impending apocalypse—and the seemingly irresistible desire to roll her eyes at how overly dramatic everyone is being. It's a stupid invitation to a lame freaky party, for heavens' sake. What's the worst thing that can happen? She clearly remembered being chained to the guts of the Lockwood cellar back in the day, awaiting the big bad epic sacrificial ritual that would end her life and break the curse binding the legendary original hybrid's unprecedented powers for evil—

—and look at her now, trotting almost naked all over his big-ass mansion.

She has a way of making it through, and she actually refuses to be afraid this time around, god damn _it_. Klaus got rid of Silas who had like, all the dark magic in the universe and a _thousand_ freaking years on the originals. Caroline will _not_ be afraid of a vampire that's like, two hundred years old, diabolical and messed-up in the head as he may be. No way in freaking hell.

"Elijah has gone to find Sophie—" Klaus begins to explain, pinching the bridge of his nose but sounding a little bit more relaxed. However, before he can finish up what he's about the to say, the front door opens again, and as if on cue, Elijah enters the house, accompanied by a beautiful, dark-haired young woman that, Caroline assumes, can only be Sophie.

She introduces herself as soon as Elijah leads her into the kitchen with a polite smile, her hand extended. "Hello," she chirps, "I'm Sophie."

Given the short skirt, the sing-song voice, and the somehow hippie blouse she's wearing, Caroline wasn't expecting Sophie's handshake to be as strong as it is. Her smile wrinkles into a slight, half amused frown as she introduces herself, and she actually has to crack her knuckles while Stefan greets Sophie with a guarded smile.

"Should we take this to the living room?" Elijah asks, holding up his hand to lead the way, the question only a token of politeness that does not undermine the authority behind the request. "We'll be more comfortable there."

Uh. Comfortable.

Not exactly the word Caroline would use to describe the awkward silence that settles on the group after each takes their seat on the ridiculously sumptuous couches that occupied the centre of the living room. Caroline's sitting next to Klaus. Elijah and Sophie are right in front them, and Stefan and Rebekah are sitting one in each of the two armchairs in front of the fireplace. Before anyone can say a word, Klaus rings an actual freaking copper bell, and in less than two seconds, a young guy dressed as a Victorian lackey starts mixing up Martinis. Caroline has to bite down her tongue not to burst out laughing maniacally because, for the love of all that is good and holy, _who_ are these people, and what alternative reality or freaky timeframe have they stumbled from?

To make matters even weirder, the creepy invitation is lying on the coffee table, all eyes on it. Suddenly, still before anyone speaks, Sophie leans forward and takes it, inspecting it carefully as if to detect any signs of evil sorcery in it. She barely shrugs. "It's just a regular invitation," she concludes. "Well, except for the blood. But that's to be expected from Marcel. He believes himself to be a lot more creative than he actually is."

Rebekah snorts, impatiently tapping her foot on the luscious, most-likely-angora carpet. "So… what's the plan?"

Klaus leans back on the couch, crosses one leg on his lap to rest his foot over his knee. "It's a trap. The place will be crammed with Marcel's mindless vampires, all of them on vervain of course. In addition, there'll be a full coven of witches waiting for us, bound to do his every whim."

Rebekah smacks her lips. "That why I asked what the plan is, Nik. Sulking it up isn't going to fix—"

"Rebekah—" It's Elijah's turn now to utter his sister's name in warning. Honestly, Caroline doesn't want to find the whole situation so funny, but she can't help the smile that tugs at the corners of her mouth at Rebekah's bratty pout. She doesn't laugh even a little however; Elijah's countenance is so serious that he looks almost scary as he folds his hands together. "It's most certainly a trap, yes," he agrees, his voice calm and composed. "So we don't make any sudden moves. We go to the ball as we're expected to. It's a table for eight, right? That's how these events usually go—"

He lets his words trail off, his nose wrinkling slightly in contempt when he says, _these events_. It's obvious that the sinful, debased debauchery of Mardi Gras is hardly Elijah's preferable environment to go about business and politics, but what can you do, really?

"So us three, our plus-ones, and who else?" Rebekah asks, her eyes travelling restlessly across the room.

Elijah sighs. "We'll need witches. Sophie will be my date for the night, it's not like Marcel doesn't know she's at open war against him. Niklaus will take her new friend, you'll take your _old_ one—"

"Caroline isn't coming—"

"Of course she is, Niklaus. Don't be unreasonable," Elijah cuts him off, only the slightest show of irritation wrinkling his brow. "Marcel isn't stupid. It's a full moon, so your wolves will be out of control—"

"Debatable, brother."

Elijah ignores him with perfect poise. Just goes on talking like Klaus never interrupted him at all. "But your hybrid is in town, isn't him? That's very convenient, actually. He'll be the seventh guest—"

"Have you completely lost your mind, Elijah?" Klaus raises his voice, very much expectedly, but Caroline's Martini still shakes in her hand, startled, the poor thing. "Why would I take the Lockwood boy anywhere?"

"Because he is your _only_ hybrid, Nik." This time, Elijah does smile, eerily calm, knowingly. "It's only natural that you would want to protect him about _all_ else, isn't it?"

Klaus's eyes narrow, first; then, his lips twitch almost unnoticeably; at last, his mouth curves into a scary, dangerous-looking smirk. "It wounds my pride to admit it, brother, but you were always the better tactician."

Stefan chuckles, shaking his head. "Of course. This Marcel guy might've seen Tyler only in passing, but I don't think the fact that he's not your usual kind of monster has gone unnoticed."

Caroline swallows; hums; darts her eyes from Stefan to Klaus to Elijah and back again because, if you ask her, this conversation is moving too fast. Why does Elijah want Tyler to attend the Ball with them? Why is Klaus so happy about it? If this is some sacrificial, scapegoating thing… If they're thinking of offering up Tyler to Marcel as some kind of appeasement or distraction or the devil knows what—

"You're not putting Tyler in danger because of me!" All eyes turn to her; Klaus's significantly heavier, so Caroline chooses not to look away from Elijah, who is sitting right in front of her. It was his idea, after all. And this is _her_ mess, okay? Tyler's already far more involved than he should be. It's bad enough that Klaus has him trapped with his compulsion, and now they're planning to get him killed in some kind of ploy—

"Caroline, Tyler won't be in danger. You don't have to worry about that," Elijah explains. "As far as Marcel knows, you're here with Tyler, is that correct?"

Caroline nods. "He knows we're friends. We came to New Orleans for spring break. I didn't want to, I wanted to go to Cancún, but Tyler insisted."

The corner of Elijah's mouth tug upwards, and this time he _almost_ smiles. "Perfect. He knows that you're a young vampire who came into town with your college friend, who just happens to be Niklaus's hybrid. He might not understand what brought Tyler to New Orleans, but our job is to make him believe he _knows_ what's in it for Nik."

Klaus's voice sneaks up on her from her right, low and soft as a caress. "I am using you to get to him, that's why you're still alive, love. You're my leverage because, you see, my new pack would certainly benefit from having another hybrid as my lieutenant."

Caroline shivers, because it's uncanny how their machinations resemble reality. Klaus might not be using her to get to Tyler—_anymore_, a rebellious voice protests inside her head, but Caroline smothers it quickly with a huff—but she's still leverage. The leverage Klaus doesn't want used against him; the leverage he still holds over Tyler, compulsion or not. And Tyler is thinking of staying—_my new pack would certainly benefit from having another hybrid as my lieutenant_.

Elijah tilts his head. "As your protégé. Same as Marcel was back in the day."

Rebekah snorts, derisive, and Caroline frowns. She's still confused, and very much not trusting the good will of these people. "Let's see if I got this straight," she says, uncrossing her legs and leaning forward, leaving her Martini glass on the table. "Klaus is after Tyler because of weird hybrid reasons, so the plan is to make Marcel think—_what_, exactly? Why do you need Tyler at the party?"

She is not expecting Sophie to be the one replying to her question—

—and she is most certainly not expecting Sophie to say what she says.

"You're friends with a Bennett witch, aren't you?" She doesn't wait for Caroline to wipe the _what-the-fuck_ expression off her face before she adds. "You should call her. We're going to need a very powerful witch that Marcel doesn't know if we're supposed to keep you and your friends safe."

Umm—

_What?_

"What?"

No one is impressed with Caroline's eloquence, that's for sure, but she's stunned. She keeps looking at Sophie with her eyes about to pop out, trying to make sense of what she just said. Call Bonnie? To go with them to the freaky Masquerade Ball? But that makes no sense—

"Caroline," Elijah speaks again, his voice deep and pacifying. "Marcel has to believe Tyler is Klaus's endgame. That will distract him and deter him. He has to believe that you're disposable, as harsh as that sounds. I apologize for my boldness, but if you get hurt, as far as he can know, no of us will care. That means we need a witch strong enough to protect you, should you be—"

They don't let him finish out the hypothetical case. Should she be _what_? They never find out. Both Klaus and Caroline cut him off at the same time—

"You jest, brother. I will carve out your insides and watch you stuff them back in afterwards."

"I will _not_ drag Bonnie into this madness, are you all insane? She has _nothing_ to do with this. This is _my _mess, okay? And I will—"

Sophie interrupts her again, and Caroline begins to like her less and less. "A Bennett witch is the only way to protect you against Marcel's coven, believe me." She doesn't even offer a comforting smile, just bosses the hell out of Caroline like she actually knows what she's talking about. Which yes, she might know Marcel, but what right does she have to speak of Bonnie like she's just an asset to be exploited? She doesn't even try to conceal her agenda. She blatantly adds, a bit more excited that she has any right to be, "She could help us set them all free."

Klaus leans forward on the couch, too, his knee bumping Caroline's leg. "Sophie, sweetheart, don't get ahead of yourself, will you? Your witches don't take preference." He offers a tight-lipped smile and turns to Elijah, eyes cold as blue ice, stony like sapphires. "We get the Bennett witch, it makes sense since, no matter what, we're going against Marcel's witches. But that, unfortunately, will pique his interest for sure. What is so important that we are _desperate_ to protect? Just a hybrid?"

Elijah's brow creases, and he looks genuinely puzzled by Klaus's question. "_You_, of course. What else, brother?"

It downs on Caroline slowly, but inexorably. _What else_?

"Elijah's right, Nik," Rebekah says, her voice suddenly darker, sadder. "Marcel will only care about Tyler or Caroline as a means to hurt _you_. The trap is meant for you."

Elijah nods. "The point of their ritual is to kill the king, but it's been never their own king they've killed. So whether the Ball is the main act or just an overture, they're going after you, brother."

Of course. The Masquerade Ball might be an obvious trap, but Caroline is hardly the target. She's a weak spot, at best. Marcel's war is against Klaus, and whatever the coven of witches are planning—it's a move to put Klaus down.

"Exactly," Klaus agrees, hands fisting on the leg he keeps crossed over his lap. He looks strangely relaxed, for someone speculating about the many possibilities and intricacies of some evil master plan to end his days. "That's why Caroline won't come to the ball. I can't afford to be distracted—"

"Damn it, Nik! How dumb are you?"

"Our sister's right, Niklaus," Elijah intercedes, just the quiet tone of his voice making peace between the siblings before the war can really start. "Marcel's expecting Caroline to be there. He knows we know it's a trap. Any sign that you might be trying to protect her, and you'll give her away." He sighs, and it's only the unnaturally slow pace of his breathing that lets on his impatience with his brother. "No sudden moves, brother. If so far the plan has been hiding in plain sight, that's what you'll do. Caroline will be safest at the ball, with _all_ of us there, and your hybrid, Sophie, and the Bennett witch."

_Hold your horses_, Caroline hasn't agreed yet to call Bonnie. Bonnie will not be dragged into gigantic mess just because Klaus's pathetically thin army could use a Bennett witch to win his stupid war against Marcel

"I'm not actually dumb, Rebekah," Klaus replies after a few seconds of silence, his voice icy cold, hard and unforgiving as his rocklike eyes. "As opposed to you, I know what Elijah intends to do. Have his witchy friend and the Bennett girl perform a couple of protective spells to prevent some rather unfortunate tragedy, and proceed to let Marcel simply take Caroline and do with her as he wills."

Rebekah frowns, and Stefan shakes his head. "That's not gonna happen."

Klaus snorts. "You're bloody right that's not going to—"

"That's not _necessarily _going to happen, no." Elijah stands up from the couch, and everyone goes quiet immediately. He goes to stand by the fireplace, leaning his elbow on the enabled marble that encases it. "We make it obvious that Caroline is expendable, and you're only worried about your hybrid. If Marcel doesn't fall for it, and takes Caroline, we let him take her." His eyes land on her, and despite the words, his gaze is softer than Caroline has ever seen it when directed at her. "Call your friend, Caroline. She'll want to help you. I give you my word that no harm will come to her. Marcel would never dare harm a Bennett witch, let alone one as powerful as Bonnie, chosen by Silas himself."

It's hard for Caroline to concentrate on resisting the very compelling influence of Elijah's skills for persuasion, when all she can think about is, _we let him take her_. It's most certainly a trick to divert her attention, and it works flawlessly. She furrows her brow, grimaces in confusion, not fully realizing the implications of what Elijah is saying until Stefan speaks again.

"You're not seriously suggesting that we go to that ball and, if Marcel tries to take Caroline, we just let him do it, right?"

On pure instinct, Caroline's hand jumps from the edge of the couch she's gripping almost painfully to close over Klaus's clenched fist. His fingers don't relax; don't entwine with hers, but she keeps their hands pressed tightly together while she raises her eyes to Elijah.

"No one will hurt you, Caroline. If our plan works, Marcel will not go for you. He'll think you're no one important."

_No one important. What's known as collateral damage, should anything happen to her_.She can't do anything about it: her voice trembles when she asks, "And if the plan doesn't work?"

Once again, it's Sophie who answers Caroline's question, but this time her voice is gentler, almost kind. "There is a spell. We can protect you. If your friend helps me," she smiles, and it's a pretty, tender, genuine smile. "It will be unbreakable."

Who is this witch? A rebel who has risen against Marcel's tyranny. She has been working with Elijah. But why is she so determined to help them? Why do the originals trust her?

Why hasn't Klaus said a word after unveiling the darkest little secret of Elijah's plan to survive Marcel's Masquerade Ball?

He does speak, at last. His voice rumbles from deep inside his chest, and his words come out firm and hard and emotionless—it's a bit terrifying, objectively speaking, and yet it settles Caroline's fears as if by magic. "There's a loophole in your plan, brother. If Marcel or any of his vampires take Caroline, or they try to hurt her in any way during the Ball, and the witches' hocus-pocus protects her, that will also give her away, wont it?"

"No," Sophie shakes her head empathically, sitting on the edge of the couch. "We will all be protected by the spell, not just Caroline. We protect ourselves against Marcel's usual tricks, and we go to the Ball. We make it obvious that we're defending ourselves. Most likely scenario, they spot the Bennett witch, figure out we're well protected, and just use the evening to try and get more information on us. The entire social elite of this city will be there, after all."

Klaus chuckles, darkly. At last, his hand opens beneath Caroline's. "It makes sense," he concedes. "Making Marcel believe the hybrid is my endgame, the young vampire only my leverage. We go protected because we know he's after us, the Bennett witch is our secret weapon on that department. We caught him slightly off guard, so _maybe_ he puts off his plan. Unless, of course, his plan is dependent on the hundreds of masked foot soldiers that will be crowding the dance floor, or on whatever tricks he has prepared for the centenary Tableau Vivant and whatnot. So that's basically it: two originals, two hybrids, two witches, and two civilians go to a Masquerade Ball, keep their heads down and try to make it through alive like a sorry bunch of cowardly pawns in somebody else's game?" He smirks, and it is a maleficent as it gorgeous. His eyes lock on Sophie, inquisitive and curious. "I'm not loving those odds much. Fortunately for me and my reputation though, Fat Tuesday is a full moon. So I wonder, dear Sophie. Can you make your fancy little spell repel a whole pack of rabid, frenzied, bloodthirsty wolves?"

Silence settles over the room. Sophie gulps down, her eyes flying to Elijah for a second before she bravely sets her gaze on Klaus. Slowly, uncertainly, she nods.

Klaus's evil, evil smile lights up his whole angelic, beautiful face. "Well, I did warn Marcel to keep his children tucked in at home, didn't I?"

—

**tbc.**

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**Disclaimer****: The Mistick Krewe of Comus (founded in 1856) is a New Orleans, Louisiana Carnival krewe that has jealously guarded the identities of its membership and the privacy of its activities (other than its parade), perhaps even more than other Carnival organizations that subscribe to the traditional code of Carnival secrecy. I've decided to reinterpret some of the legends associated with this krewe to fit this story, but any similarities between my story and reality are to be seen as mere coincidence ;) I just lack the creativity to come up with a truly mystic, truly ancient krewe on my own ;)**

**Thanks for reading, as always! Any comments? Questions? Critiques? Please feel free to talk to me either through here or on tumblr. Oh, and I might keep posting previews for future chapters ;) {theelliedoll} Next: Bonnie arrives at New Orleans and the girls go... ball gown shopping?**

**Btw - somebody asked me why I decided to make Marcel gay (which makes sense, given that canon deviances actually give me anxiety, and I knew Marcel wouldn't be gay in The Originals and I still made him into guys) - if you're curious, a long detailed answer can be found here: post/47011643315/can-i-ask-why-you-chose-marcel-to -be-gay-just :)**


	10. Chapter 10

**Hello guys! Look – an early update! ;) ****Mostly because maybe this chapter is only filler –**** No, really, it's because you are amazing readers, and talking to you is always inspiring and very encouraging. So as always thank you for still being there, and for sharing your thoughts with me. That means the whole world – and really, it's the one reason why this story exists at all.**

**Please, enjoy!**

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**Chapter 10**

**.-.**

The car ride to the airport to pick up Bonnie may rate, approximately, number three in the top ten of Caroline's most awkward experiences to date.

It's certainly a challenge to keep Rebekah's big mouth shut, but Stefan, proving to be the ultimate sweetheart, rises to the occasion, and for at least half of their ridiculous road trip, the time passes in a thick, stormy cloud of uncomfortable silence—a situation that Caroline loathes especially, as it is well known. Like, she doesn't abhor awkward silences as much as she hates Rebekah's never-ending impertinence, but it's not like she _can_ keep quiet for half an hour while riding in a car with Stefan, his evil annoying not-girlfriend, and her own ex-boyfriend.

Especially not under the given circumstances, you see.

So she speaks, at last; her eyes barely darting towards Tyler for a second before she turns away to look out of the car window. "You talked to Klaus?"

The mid-morning bright sunlight over New Orleans still takes her breath away, after four days. The city looks different beneath the glowing sunbeams. Most of the monsters have gone back to hiding, and even though the streets are always busy, it's that quiet time before noon where the tourists are still sleeping off the wild party from last night, and the city's normal, vibrant activities are given a rare rest from the raucous, crazy, inebriated celebrations.

Tyler takes his time breathing out the answer to Caroline's unasked question. "It's okay, Care," he sighs, and the saddest part, Caroline figures, is that he means it.

Which is so frigging _dumb_. Because it isn't okay. It isn't okay at all. None of this is okay.

She shakes her head. "No, Tyler I'm _really_ sorry. I never meant to get you involved in all this, and now Bonnie—_God_, I don't know—"

He reaches out for her hand, gives her a soft squeeze. "Care, we're your friends, okay? I'm not going to let anything happen to you, and neither is Bonnie—"

"Yes, Caroline," Rebekah interrupts, searching Caroline's eyes in the rear mirror and completely ignoring the traffic like the psycho-killer that she is. "Just imagine you're your BFF, that spineless doppelganger you all care about so much, and you'll be fine. No one ever uttered a word to protest when it was the whole wide world bending over backwards for _her_ sake, am I right? You'd probably be the first stabbing a stake in your own heart if she asked you to."

Caroline barely holds back a chuckle, fixes her eyes to stare deadly and severely unimpressed at Rebekah. She turns to Tyler however when he chortles, raising an eyebrow at her pointedly. "She's right."

A small smile turns up Caroline's lips because, hey, who would have ever thought that Tyler taking Rebekah's side about _anything_ would spur a reaction in her, gentler than, you know, boiling rage? Look at the many things that seemingly happened a lifetime ago: Rebekah trying to hook up with Tyler and getting him high on compelled walking breathing human blood bags barely registers in Caroline's memory at this point. Still, it's not exactly an alliance for _her_ sake that she was expecting. If anything, Caroline was expecting Rebekah and Tyler to resent her involvement with Klaus a lot worse than many other people, but both seem definitely on her side.

Weird. Really. Caroline's not yet used to this new feeling of having people on her side.

She's a lot less alone than she feels most of the time, she knows—

—and yet, still, she's certain that she's _this close_ to cracking at least two of Bonnie's ribs when, half an hour later, she's hugging her awkwardly from her sitting position in the backseat of Rebekah's SUV. Because—

—Bonnie's here. Her best friend is _here_.

Caroline loves Stefan like there's no tomorrow, don't misunderstand her. But Stefan is a guy, and he has his own very complicated relationship with both Klaus and Rebekah to handle, and he's kind of busy reminiscing Chicago, and since he's Rebekah's plus-one for Mardi Gras, it's not like it's _safe_ that he and Caroline seem too close to unsuspecting eyes. Of course, it's also very much not safe that she's hanging out with a Bennett witch in the open, so that's why she stays with Tyler and Rebekah in the car while Stefan goes in to _arrivals_ to wait for Bonnie.

"Wow," Bonnie smiles, wide and definitely happy to see Caroline. "So many people waiting for me, _hiding in a car_."

Caroline returns her smile apologetically when Bonnie's wide grin breaks into a slightly confused frown. They've talked on the phone, Bonnie is aware of most of the details and those that she doesn't know yet, well, Caroline isn't going to be sharing in a crowded car, with Stefan, Rebekah, and Tyler of all people listening. Of course, Caroline shouldn't have underestimated Rebekah's utter _devotion_ to being boundlessly helpful. End sarcasm.

"Well, Bonnie. You're our secret agent, and Caroline can't be seen with you. Also, Tyler can't be seen with you, either, because people are supposed to believe that Klaus is protecting _him_, and not Caroline," she explains, matter-of-factly, like she's actually doing a public service here. "And I can't be seen with you either, because my brother's enemies can't suspect he's brought a Bennett witch into the war. You'll be staying with us, though. You'll be safe in our house. Just not, you know, in the streets."

Bonnie's still frowning, still confused, but not looking scared or worried at all. She actually shrugs, "Okay," she says slowly. "Will I be meeting Sophie soon?"

Caroline tilts her head, confused. She _mentioned_ Sophie on the phone, but didn't actually say much—because she doesn't actually know much, or you know, _anything_—about the witchy situation. Like, she knows Marcel has witches, and Sophie says the witches are subjugated under Marcel's tyranny, and somehow he has their magic under his control, God only know how that's possible. But Caroline doesn't really understand what's going on there, except that Marcel is probably planning to use the witches against Klaus to get him whatever equates_ killed_ for a vampire that can't be killed and that, were he to die, well, all of them would fall, too. Marcel, first in line.

She didn't say anything of that to Bonnie, though. Just that Elijah was working with a witch, Sophie. Is that enough to explain why Bonnie is looking so bright-eyed and apparently excited at the thought of meeting this complete stranger? Like, Sophie had been practically bouncing off the couch at the thought of getting to know Bonnie, but Caroline figures that's the witch equivalent for star-struck when meeting a Bennett, but—

—honestly, _when will this question stop plaguing her_? —

—who _is_ this Sophie girl, who is so full of ideas to save them all?

"Oh, Sophie will probably be home already when we get there," Rebekah interrupts Caroline's train of thought, _again_. This time she even turns her head to cast a quick glance at Bonnie, the road ahead forgotten which makes Caroline brace herself against the back of Stefan's seat, Rebekah's lousy track record with car accidents coming to her mind, very much uninvited. Ugh. Rebekah still smiles though, careless of the danger. "We're going gown shopping! Well, actually, the gowns are _coming_ to us, but same thing, really."

It's, apparently, a habit of Rebekah—Elena told Caroline. When she has to pick a dress for a big event or any special occasion, she compels herself a handful of girls to try them on and parade themselves, so she doesn't have to be bothered with the annoying task of dressing and undressing herself again and again. It's morbid and absolutely repellent, and Caroline had given Rebekah the most absolute evil eye _ever_ when she mentioned their plans for the day while Tyler and Klaus finished discussing whatever it is that they were discussing. But Rebekah had barely shrugged.

Now Caroline scoffs, rolling her eyes and looking meaningfully at Bonnie. "Rebekah likes to compel herself a fashion show instead of, you know, being bothered with the mall."

"They aren't compelled, Caroline. Haven't you learned anything since you've been here?"

Caroline smiles a snarky, tight-lipped smile. "Of course. I forgot you have enslaved the entire human population of New Orleans. Who needs compulsion, right?"

Stefan intervenes, as he does, one part sensible and mature for each part of amusement ringing in his voice. "Girls—"

Rebekah has no trouble ignoring him this time. "Well, at least we can be grateful to Marcel for that."

Bonnie's frown has deepened, and now she does look worried. And crept out. She's wearing her typical, _that's horrible_ expression and yes, it's horrible, and it makes Caroline feel horrible that she actually drunk blood-spiked Champagne, and she's been shamelessly enjoying every comfort provided in Klaus's house—_included _the freshly-poured blood with every meal that was most certainly being bled out of someone.

It's just—

"Wow."

Bonnie's reaction when a short while later she's standing outside the Mikaelsons' impossibly gorgeous, impossibly _huge_, impossibly white house pretty much explains the whirl of thoughts rushing through Caroline's head when attempting to understand and justify her own actions—or to come up with a way of being honest without making Bonnie hate her, or judge her, or turn her back on her. Basically, she's overwhelmed, and sometimes it becomes so easy to get lost in thinking she's been stranded on in a fairy tale. Like, a really dark and twisted version of Cinderella—one that includes vampires. What Caroline is: one of the dark creatures of the night that survive for all eternity by sucking the blood of poor defenceless humans.

Caroline's fairy tale also includes huge plantation houses with a lake and a rowboat and endless expanses of tall, bright green grass. And dozens of Polyester cotton garment bags piled up on the living room's couches, containing the most glamorous ball gowns in the state, waiting just for them. Or so Caroline hopes.

Rebekah positively squeals, for what is worth, clapping her hands together and bouncing off her feet when she sees them. The girls who will model for them are already there, waiting, and immediately, barely waving Stefan goodbye when he and Tyler leave Bonnie's luggage on the parlour, Rebekah gets on with preparing the girls and shooting off instructions.

"We're going back downtown," Stefan explains, rolling his shoulders.

Caroline nods, and waves to Tyler, _see you later_, not turning around to look at Bonnie until they're alone, at last, standing before the lordly staircase that leads to the upper floor. Stefan and Tyler are probably heading back to _The Howlin' Wolf_, where more evil plotting will take place for the remainder of the day, while the girls are entertaining themselves with buying pretty dresses. She wants to roll her eyes, huff, but Bonnie's stunned expression distracts her from her doubt-planting traitorous thoughts.

"It's a really nice house."

Caroline smiles at the understatement. "Want me to show you to your room? It's right in front of mine, so we'll be close. You can share my—"

She's already four steps up the stairs, Bonnie's bags hanging weightless from her arms, when Bonnie interrupts her. "You have your own room?"

Caroline's breathing hitches, and she cringes mentally, waiting at least a couple of seconds more than necessary before she even thinks of turning around to look at Bonnie. She honestly wasn't expecting Bonnie to address the elephant in the room this fast, though being frank, it's a good thing that Bonnie's been the one to actually mention it. Otherwise, Caroline has not the slightest idea of how or when she would have found a way to casually comment on the fact that she's, um, well—

—sleeping with Klaus.

She steadies the relaxed smile on her face and turns around, looking at Bonnie from the vantage point a few steps up the stairs have granted her.

"I do," she begins to reply—

"She just doesn't sleep in it."

Caroline squeezes her eyes shut, grips the marble railing until she feels the unbreakable stone begin to flake. If she were an original vampire… where would she hide the white-oak stage? _Honestly_. What she'd give right now to stick that fancy ancient magical indestructible piece of fancy white wood right into Rebekah's rotten guts... She wasn't going to lie, okay? She was going to find the right way to tell Bonnie, which really, a shamed quick glance to the floor and a pink blush to the cheeks might have sufficed for Bonnie to grasp the basic facts, without Caroline needing to put _it_ into actual words.

Rebekah's snooty voice coming from the living room, however, totally trumps her plans.

Caroline isn't even one bit surprised.

Luckily for her, Rebekah's malevolent brazenness earns Caroline a couple of sympathy points, so Bonnie's wrinkled forehead relaxes into a kind-hearted smile as she shakes her head, taking pity of Caroline's terrible fate in being burdened with Rebekah as you know, _penance._ For shamelessly going to bed with Klaus. Again and again.

"Let's go upstairs, shall we?"

Bonnie only nods, and neither of them says a word until they're sitting on Bonnie's bed, the door closed so they can at least pretend Rebekah won't hear their conversation. Caroline's fidgeting with a loose thread of the luxuriously soft bed covers, looking down and trying to come up with the right words to explain to Bonnie a situation that she doesn't even understand herself. She keeps getting distracted, her thoughts idly dwelling on how pretty Bonnie's room is, if not as big as Caroline's, and with no view of the massive lawn and lake—but to the beautifully gardened front yard. There's no en-suite bathroom, either, but they can share.

"Caroline…"

She feels Bonnie's hand clasping hers before she hears her name being called, low and kind.

She can't do anything to hold back the shame. "I am _so_ sorry, Bon. I swear—I wasn't planning—"

"Hey, Care. It's okay." Bonnie's smile is open, and gentle. "I'm not judging you."

Caroline returns her smile, and as her sight grows misty and blurry, she feels her heart bouncing, almost weightless. It's a good thing, she figures, that she told Bonnie about what had happened between her and Klaus before he left town last year. Bonnie hadn't exactly been supportive of Caroline's funk after Klaus left, but she hadn't hated her, either. She hadn't been angry. Her face hardened and she sighed. _It's in my nature to hate all vampires_, she had exhaled, only a tiny bit sad, _but I will always love you, Care. You will always be my best friend_.

It was only their fateful tragedy, that Bonnie was made to hate what Caroline was. What Elena was.

Caroline laces her fingers together, and they both fall back on the comfy bed, hands clasped together. Caroline grumbles, "I didn't mean to, though. I didn't come here to, you know, _be_ with him."

Noah died. Noah _died_.

Bonnie rolls onto her side, her eyes narrowed as she takes in Caroline. "But you knew it was a possibility, didn't you?" Caroline closes her eyes, because _yes_. Of course. Bonnie squeezes her hand tighter. "Care, I've watched you trying to get over him for almost a year, and it wasn't really working. And then what happened to Noah—"

That _Tyler_ killed him—

Bonnie lets her words trail off, and a sad little broken chuckle bubbles up Caroline's throat. "No, it really wasn't working."

She opens her eyes to find a compassionate expression draped over Bonnie's beautiful, kind face. "So what's the deal? Are you two like, _together_ now? Are you staying here?"

Caroline shakes her head, also rolls onto her side so she's looking at Bonnie in the eye. Maybe, she hopes, she'll find some kind of firm ground there. "It's not—I mean, I don't really know. Something about the transcendental meaning of Mardi Gras, I think?" Bonnie frowns, her whole face crumpling into a puzzled expression. Caroline shrugs, awkwardly because she's lying down on her side. "It's a sort of test ride. Just a week, to do what feels…_right_, I guess. I'm really not thinking about it. It was supposed to be a week of careless fun to sort of explore whatever's going on but, you know, in our sorry lives, shit has the tendency to hit the fan before you can say, _I'm sleeping with an evil original hybrid_."

Bonnie's soft smile flattens; she looks concerned. Caroline feels the grip of her fingers tightening to the point of _almost_ hurting her, which is weird, because Caroline is a vampire, and witches don't really have superhuman strength, do they? "You will be okay, Care. I promise."

"They're not going after me," she whispers. _Collateral damage_, haven't you heard? "It's Klaus you will be essentially protecting."

Bonnie's smile twitches, but perseveres. "I know that."

"Bon… he sentenced Grams to an eternity of torment." Caroline's voice falters, but she pops herself up on her elbow and covers up her momentary surge of panic with a hard, determined expression. "I understand if you don't want to—"

"I did that to Grams, Caroline. And I did it to save Tyler, and to bring back Elena. I will do _anything_ for you."

"But Bonnie—"

"Since the originals returned to New Orleans… Witches have been talking, Caroline. My mom still has friends in this city—" Bonnie sits up; her face steels and then melts, creasing as she looks away, biting down her bottom lip as if uselessly trying to keep down her words. "I paid for what happened to Grams with _my_ magic, Caroline. You can't imagine what it feels like for a witch to have our powers throttled, to be separated from nature—"

Bonnie's words catch in her throat and she gasps, suddenly short of breath. Caroline sits up immediately, wrapping her arm around Bonnie's shoulders and pulling her closer, hugging her one-armed. She doesn't understand what's gotten her so worked up, but—

"I have every reason in the world to hate Klaus, to want to see him tortured, or buried in concrete, but he's promised to liberate the witches in this city, Caroline." She turns her face towards her, and Caroline notices that her eyes have filled with tears. But Bonnie doesn't cry. She just goes on smiling, terribly. "I would have killed twelve of my own kind if you guys hadn't stopped me."

Caroline swallows. Her thoughts are a mess, a violent rush of Klaus being tortured by Marcel's witches, buried in concrete, gray as ashes—and Bonnie shaking and sobbing, kneeling in the woods, crushing dead leaves in her fists, not two feet away from Silas's dead body. It was over. They had been _so close_ to losing her.

Caroline wraps her other arm around Bonnie, and squeezes her into her chest. She has no trouble ignoring Rebekah's screeching voice when it seeps from downstairs across the thick walls of the house. _Will you come down already? Masquerade ball gowns are waiting!_

Caroline presses her cheek to Bonnie's face, and shushes her. "It's okay, Bonnie. It's okay."

Bonnie breathes in deeply, trying to calm herself down before pulling away slightly to look at Caroline. "I know now that my magic comes from _me_. I can control it without the guidance of the spirits, but that doesn't mean that I will not make _anything_ that's in my power to atone for what I did."

Caroline nods. "I know," she whispers. "It's okay."

_I swear to God, Caroline. If you don't come down this minute I will buy all the gowns myself and I will not let you borrow any of them. Or maybe I'll leave only the slutty ones, see what my brother thinks of that._

Bonnie squints, her mouth curving into a lopsided grin. "Is Rebekah screaming?"

Caroline scoffs. "Rebekah is a bratty, spoiled, demanding, entitled, snobbish little—"

"I like Rebekah," Bonnie says, head tilted, a pensive expression blurring out her smile. "I mean, I don't really know her. But she was a witch, before Esther turned her. Just like my mom—deep inside, I don't think she's that different from me."

Huh. Well, Caroline can only hope Rebekah is really coming up the stairs and actually heard that. She'd be all happy and teary and most likely, a lot less predisposed to be ripping out the hearts of the improvised top models downstairs if she isn't as pleased as she's hoping to be with their ball gown shopping.

"Come on," she sighs, jumping up from the bed and plastering an enthusiastic smile on her face. "Let's go see those gowns for the merry dance of death before Rebekah starts taking it out ion the poor girls who are so excited about wearing such exclusive fabrics that they don't even mind they're being used by some ancient evil blood sucker like they're mannequins."

Bonnie chuckles, even though the joke is far too accurate to be funny at all, or, you know, a _joke_ at all. But it at least lightens the mood, and Caroline breathes out, relieved, walking towards the door with a slight bounce in her steps, feeling perhaps a little bit excited about the gowns waiting downstairs—

—when she hears the front door open just as she and Bonnie step out of the room.

"Sophie is here," she says, straightening her back and swallowing the wave of unexpected nervousness creeping up her throat. "And so is Klaus."

He's waiting form them at the foot of the wide staircase, of course, just like Jack Dawson in _Titanic_. Caroline, however, is hardly dressed to the nines, so no wide-eyed staring ensues this time. Klaus's eyes barely brush over her before his smile spreads all over his face as he takes in Bonnie's wary glance of appraisal. He's completely unfazed, obviously, and so he actually extends his hand in greeting and _helps_ Bonnie down the last couple of steps. Like she's wearing high heels and a long silky dress with a lacy train and actually needs his gallant assistance not to tumble down the stairs.

Bonnie takes his hand, politely, but raises a very unimpressed eyebrow, _really_ impolitely.

"Bonnie," Klaus grins, utterly and totally uncaring of her contempt. "I trust you will be comfortable in the room we have arranged for you."

"I will," she nods, stone-cold. "Thank you."

She pulls her hand away before Klaus is ready to let her go, and he sort of pouts—like maybe she's interrupted his plans for over-the-top theatrics. He looked _so_ ready to bow his back and kiss her knuckles. But he recovers quickly, the smile unflinching. "Please allow me to introduce you to Sophie. Perhaps you've heard of her? She's a rather powerful witch, comes from a long line. Just like yourself."

Sophie's eyes are wide and bright; she looks positively glowing at the thought of shaking Bonnie's hand. Yet when she does—as firmly, Caroline can only imagine, as she shook her hand when they were introduced—her eyes widen and her whole body stiffens for a second. Caroline watches her swallow, frown, cover whatever foreboding or witchy vision just went through her body with a disciplined smile. Her voice doesn't quiver. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

Bonnie's standing with her back turned to Caroline, so there's no guessing whether she's smiling when her voice seeps out, flat and emotionless. "Nice to meet you, Sophie."

Caroline feels Klaus clenching by her side; hears the hitch in his breath before he too conceals the quick moment of tension by clapping his hands together and calling out to his sister who's standing with her hands perched on her hips at the other end of the lobby, leaning against the French doors of the living room. "Beks, be quick about the gowns, will you?" His smile grows bigger, goofier. "We're throwing a party tonight. Well, a small gathering of friends."

Caroline turns to him with a swift twist of her hips. "What? A party?" _Another party_? "Here? Tonight?"

"Well, love. It hardly seems fair to keep my lovely guests here secluded while the party rages outside, don't you agree?" His deep blue eyes glint merrily, snatching Caroline's puzzled gaze in them and not letting her go. "If we can't take your friend to Mardi Gras, we'll bring Mardi Gras to your friend."

Bonnie frowns. "You don't have to do that. You can go out, I'll stay—"

Unexpectedly—and yet strangely unsurprisingly—Sophie interrupts her like they've been best friends for years. "Don't be silly. Mardi Gras is a magical time, Bonnie Bennett, and since you're here, you better enjoy it as much as you can, right?" With a bright smile splitting up her face, she actually grabs Bonnie's hand and pulls her towards the living room where Rebekah and her improvised catwalk are waiting. "It'll be fun. This house is like a freaking palace."

Bonnie throws a quick smile at Caroline before following Sophie and Rebekah into the living room. Caroline furrows her brow, breathing loudly through her nose. Huh. Umm. Huh. Wrinkling her forehead deeper and pressing her lips tight, she turns towards Klaus. She's ready for him to look worried too, or at least a bit curious about why Sophie is acting like a kid in a carnival around Bonnie, and then a second later it's all guarded glances and witchy momentary trances, and then it's the kid in the carnival all over again. And why is Bonnie also acting like nothing freaky is going on?

Possibly because, judging by Klaus's distracted expression as he examines from afar Rebekah's make shift models, nothing freaky is actually going on, and Caroline is just paranoid.

"So…" She crosses her arms over her chest. This is actually relevant to her interests. And life purpose. "You're planning and throwing a big Mardi Gras party in half a day?"

Klaus's face turns to her as a soft, wistful-looking smile curves up his lips. "It's really not a _big_ party. But, I could do that, if I wanted to. Remember homecoming, love?"

A dry laugh jumps out of her mouth. "I actually don't. A shot of vervain right into the jugular can do that to a person." Well, to a _vampire_. Technically speaking.

"Yes, I never really thanked Tyler for that. Remind me to do that later," he jokes, evilly, and yet strangely affectionate. His eyes soften, and his voice drops, sounding genuinely tender. "You looked _ravishing_ that night."

"Right," Caroline scoffs, not even trying to suppress her eye-roll. Because sometimes he looks at her and she feels such warmth spreading through her veins that she literally feels like she is melting, but that's different from acting all _affected_ when he's just feeding her lines. "I looked stunning at your father's funeral, didn't I? There were like, five parallel plots to kill you that night, and you _knew_. You actually talked to Katherine for a while and didn't even notice. And yet you remember how _ravishing_ I looked even though you hadn't said two words to me. _Ever_."

He doesn't even bother looking offended that she'd think so low of him, this time—that he'd be anything but thoroughly honest and truthful with her when paying her a compliment. He simply narrows his eyes and sharpens his smouldering gaze, burning his way in. "You were wearing this tight, form-fitting burgundy dress. Satin, I believe, though I never touched it. Your hair was down, curled into loose, wavy locks. You did look ravishing, love."

It'd different to have Klaus tell her how _ravishing_ she looks when they barely know each other and she's nine parts scared for each part intrigued and they're waltz dancing to an Ed Sheeran song—than to have him whisper into her ear, _now_,how _ravishing_ she looked that one night he noticed her long before either of them could have suspected the twisted game they would end up playing. It's _totally _different to have him tell her she looked ravishing, after he's spent the best part of the last three nights_ ravishing_ her alright.

How can she act dismissive now?

He takes pity on her flushed cheeks and shallow breathing after a few seconds of loaded silence, and with a pointed smile turns away to look in the direction of the living room once again. "Let me suggest the crimson one," he mutters, leaning his head closer to her so his breath mixes with her own before stepping away and holding up his hands. "It's a vampire-themed party after all."

He's out of the front door in less than a second, and well, _the crimson one it is_.

It's actually the best one—and who's even surprised, given Klaus's history with ball gowns? It's kind of romantic, in a very sappy ridiculous, sentimental way, that he picks this one too, so Caroline doesn't even bother examining the rest. One quick look is all she needs to make up her mind, introduce herself to the girl wearing the crimson masquerade wedding dress, and say thank you before sitting down by Bonnie's side on one of the couches to watch the spectacle of Rebekah's unmatched wrath.

For at least half an hour, Rebekah keeps throwing evil glances at Caroline—for her lack of interest, surely—in between barking out orders at the poor girls, who look exhausted after so much twirling on their feet. Deep down inside, Caroline actually understands Rebekah's pain. Vampire masquerade balls are tacky, and a bit of a cruel joke at their expense. Like, the full-skirt crimson gown Klaus suggested it's kind of stunning, _yes_ (though not exactly what Caroline would choose to wear for a life-and-death situation), but if they make her wear a shoulder-length black cape around her neck, she might just not bother with make-up and simply show her beautifully hideous vampire face to the higher social strata of New Orleans. Like, okay—(most of) the Victorian gowns are not really Bride-of-Dracula level of awful, but some of them actually do include a stand up vampire collar and honestly, it's just kind of wrong and _sick_.

Bonnie seems to angry, judging by the grimace of disgust twisting her mouth. She's holding a folded gown on her lap, a sand gold ancient-looking dress. "It's a Gothic Renaissance wedding dress," she explains, when Caroline raises her eyebrows in question. It looks really old, definitely like something out of a Gothic tale about haunted houses and dark creatures living in blood-red satin-stuffed coffins. It's pretty though, and delicate, Caroline notices as she watches Bonnie running her splayed fingers up and down the soft-looking velvety embroidered fabric. "This Marcel guy is really twisted, isn't he?" she asks, a dark shade of bitter amusement sweeping over her brown eyes as she leans back on the couch and crosses her legs. "I mean, the place will be full of captive witches, and he's throwing a _vampire_ masquerade?"

Caroline just looks at the beautiful gown she, or rather, _Klaus_ has picked—crimson pleated taffeta draped over layers of deep black tulle, dark red chiffon and delicate black-lace embroidery over the bust-hugging satin bodice—and just silently wishes no velvet collars or bats will be involved in the actual _mask_ part. Because Bonnie is right. This Marcel is like, really _evil_. Making them wear these—

"Marcel is a douche," Sophie simply says with a shrug, turning away from the model she's been chatting with. "He thinks he's clever and cunning, that the witches he has enslaved will be humiliated and put in their rightful place by dressing up as their natural enemies, just as he thinks he's mocking and humbling his own vampire army by making them dress like clowns." She looks back at the redheaded girl wearing the most obnoxious, outrageous costume of them all, and rolls her shoulders indifferently. "Thanks, Kim. I'll take this one."

The brief moment of stunned silence that follows Sophie's choice is broken when Rebekah, her foul mood suddenly forgotten, barks out a loud, almost hysterical laugh. It takes her at least a whole minute to calm down enough to choke out her retort, "Have you lost your mind? You know that Elijah is escorting you, right?"

The gown Sophie has just picked—well, it's not a gown at all. It's a short, tight, bright, most probably _radioactive_ black-and-fucsia bawdy vampire costume (_with_ bats and a stand up collar) that no one in their right mind would ever dare _considering _when accompanying Elijah Mikaelson to a formal event. Sophie, however, seems determined to make as big as scene as humanly (or witch-ly) possible at the ball. She seems ready to spit in Marcel's face what she thinks of his big-ass occasion and his big-ass master plan to have them all killed or similar and seriously—

"It's Mardi Gras," Sophie winks. "It's supposed to be risqué_ and_ vulgar."

—Caroline would be really impressed by her guts, but the more she learns of Sophie, the less she understands anything about her; and seeing her so ready to draw attention to herself—even daring to _unsettle_ Elijah—she can't help her restless thoughts from revisiting the freaky little moment between Sophie and Bonnie back there when Klaus introduced them. There is something that obviously doesn't _feel_ right and Caroline—

She's violently jerked out of her thoughts when a set of fake plastic vampire fangs hit her squarely in the forehead. "Caroline!" Rebekah screeches, snatching up a girl from her upper arms like she's paperweight and shaking her up in the air like a puppet so Caroline notices the dark green, impossibly tight, pleated low-cut dress she's wearing. "I asked you if you liked this one!? I can't be the only one without a dress—"

Clutching the fake set of vampire teeth in her hand, Caroline doesn't hesitate before hurling them back at Rebekah, hard and fast. "Sure. You'll look like a Far West saloon hooker, so why the hell not?"

Really—

—it's Caroline entire fault, that she doesn't see it coming.

She groans, buries her face in her hands, guitly, because—

—Rebekah has no qualms in using the poor girl in the tacky green dress as a human shield to protect herself from the impact of the plastic Halloween fangs, later leaving her back on the floor like she's a thing, bleeding from the gash opened across the forehead. Rebekah doesn't even bother healing her and, all the way smiling, she tilts one shoulder and twirls around, apparently satisfied at last.

"The black one, then," she chirps, aiming her sweet-as-cotton-candy grin to the shaking girl who is standing right by the fireplace in the gigantic, gorgeous, Gothic strapless black gown.

—

**Tbc.**

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**Thank you guys for taking the time to read as always! If you want to see the girls' gowns, check out this post: post/47388204696/these-are-the-girls-vampire-masqu erade-ball**

**Next****: there's a party; Camille and Caroline get to know each other; Klaus and Caroline get closer and we learn more about the history of the witches of New Orleans ;)**

**Drop me a line if you liked or disliked – or if there's anything you'd like to comment on. Thank you!**


	11. Chapter 11

**Hello guys! Thank you for all the follows, favourites and, especially, reviews! It's so good to know there are people out there still being bothered with this story ;) Hope this chapter won't disappoint!**

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**Chapter 11**

**.-.**

It's a clear, beautiful night outside in the gorgeous greenplace behind the Mikaelson's mansion. There's not a cloud in the sky, and the nearly-full moon hovers over the pitch black lake, low, huge, tainted a bright shade of reddish, bloodied orange as it chases away, tooth and nail, the last, stubborn rays of sunlight. Soft jazz blues trickle down melodiously from the dark crimson lips of the young girl on the stage—_Next year for sure you'll see the world. You'll really get around_—and a slow smile turns up Caroline's lips. She sighs loudly. There's a slight chill in the air, she can tell; but she doesn't feel the cold. She feels, however, the gravel popping and crackling like burning embers when Stefan comes to stand beside her. She turns to him with a grin sparkling, playful as the Champagne fizzing in her flute.

"Having fun yet?" she asks. Stefan rolls his shoulders and chuckles, letting his eyes roam the party as he takes the lowball amber-filled glass to his lips. Caroline narrows her eyes, curious. "No, seriously," she insists. "Is this anything like Chicago?"

That's how Klaus convinced him to come, even though Caroline hopes that maybe, Chicago was only a subterfuge, and Stefan is here for her sake, at least in part. It's good that he's figuring out his own stuff, toeing the line, being with Rebekah. But Caroline still hopes that he came down her to keep an eye on her, too. Make sure she's safe and not alone in the lions' den. Not only for Chicago's sake, even though—

—that's what Mardi Gras was supposed to be. Just like Chicago. Careless. Fun. Magical.

But Stefan's laugh only grows louder and deeper. "No," he shakes his head, his eyes taking her in softly. "Chicago was wild, Caroline. A lot of blood, a lot of booze…" His eyes drop, his mouth twitching nervously as he looks away, as if embarrassed. "A lot of sex."

Caroline rolls her eyes. Don't misunderstand her. She's happy that Stefan isn't actually embracing the _wild_ here in New Orleans. She doesn't want him losing control, and even though she doesn't really mind his weird not-relationship with Rebekah—like she's in any position to be getting judgey about that sort of thing, given her very own not-relationship with a much sketchier original than Rebekah, right?—she's still wary of what might happen if Stefan allows himself to have too much _fun_. Caroline promised him once, he'd be safe if he allowed himself to enjoy the perks of being a vampire after Elena turned. Caroline would make sure to hold his hand through it if he ever needed her to, so he could have his fun and still keep control. She can still do that with Rebekah now, even if it doesn't seem like Stefan needs her to. Rebekah seems to know how to just _be_ with him, and he seems capable of handling himself around Rebekah, which is ironic beyond belief. But—

_Still_, in spite of how glad Caroline is that Stefan hasn't gone _wild_, she can't help a traitorous twinge of jealousy from shooting through her chest when Stefan smiles wistfully, thinking of a _wild_ age that Caroline will never get to experience first-hand.

_A lot of blood. A lot of booze. A lot of sex._ She hates herself for the rush of want that surges through her loins, and self-loathing only increases her bitterness. So she throws the expensive Champagne to the back of her throat and gulps it down without tasting it, snapping, "Not much different then, huh?"

Despite the implications behind Stefan's words, and Caroline's own half-hearted confession about the booze, the blood and the sex, her words come out strangely distracted towards the end. Just as she's looking away from Stefan, searching for a waiter on whose tray she can exchange her empty glass for a new, filled-to-brim one, her eyes bump into Klaus. He's standing right by the stage, taking to Hayley _and _Tyler, just close enough to the fancy jazz band that Caroline can't hear a word they're saying, no matter how much she strains her ears, over the low tune of the saxophone. She's sure they're discussing something related to security; officially, the werewolves are in charge of keeping Marcel's vampires away, after all, for tonight and for the remaining two days of festivities before Fat Tuesday. So really, what else can they be talking about but business? It's not like Klaus and Tyler are likely to be sharing tips, right?

Stefan's deep, caring voice pulls her out of her bitter thoughts. "No, Caroline. Chicago was the opposite of this." The firm tone of his negative is startling. "Back then we didn't care about what happened. Not me, not Rebekah, and especially not Klaus. Everyone was expendable then. Now… everything is different."

Right. Caroline knows. Everyone's always telling her. Everything's different now. Klaus _cares_. The world is _this close_ to stop turning on its axis.

Anxiously snapping her eyes shut, Caroline looks away from Stefan as soon as she notices Rebekah walking towards them with a predatory glint beaming in her eyes. Right what she needs. Fortunately for her, however, as she soon as she turns her head, she finds a convenient distraction from her own messy thoughts. Carefully averting her eyes from the little wolfish get-together by the stage, Caroline's eyes unexpectedly fall onto Camille, who Caroline didn't even know had attended the party. Yet there she is. Sitting alone on a quaint sage-coloured arbour that stands in front of a tall wall of evergreen bushes.

Her eyes are glued to Klaus.

She looks very beautiful in her pretty purple cocktail dress, younger than she is, her silhouette draped in shadows beneath the dim reddish and bluish glow of the paper lanterns hanging from the nearby trees. Caroline watches her with narrowed eyes for a second, and barely has to even remind herself: she is a people person, isn't she? So no time like the present to get to know the mysterious human girl that Klaus keeps around for some unknowable reasons. Like, Caroline isn't _really_ buying that he has her tending _his_ bar just because having her there is like having a nice piece of art in the office. That makes no sense. Does it?

Making up her mind on the spot, Caroline walks towards the four-seater arbour with firm, confident steps, grabbing two Champagne flutes on her way there, and sitting by the girl's side without even asking for permission, because Caroline likes people and people like Caroline, and it's got nothing to do with the sudden, burning need to tear Camille's pretty doe-eyes off of Klaus, got it?

Bring-it-on mask unshakably put on, Caroline paints a bright happy smile on her face, and offers Camille a glass, her tongue tingling under the familiar weight of polite trifling chitchat. "Lovely party, isn't it?"

Camille takes the glass with a brisk nod and a pleasant smile, but she scrunches up her face a bit. "Yes," she breathes, pausing for effect and wrinkling her nose in a trying-to-play-it-cute expression. "I guess you're wondering what the hell I'm doing here, aren't you?"

Caroline's eyes widen at the unexpectedness of Camille's retort. Yes, maybe, given what little she knows of her—she's a graduate student, tends a dingy stinking dive that might or might not be a dangerous wolves' den, and is 'pathetically in love with Nik', to quote Rebekah—Caroline should have predicted that the girl might not act too overly enthusiastic about engaging in idle superficial small talk with Caroline just for the sake of social etiquette. She might wear pretty dresses and cute, skin-tight suede boots, and there might be a bit of a tiny physical resemblance between her and Caroline, in terms of how Camille does her hair and carries herself, but Caroline shouldn't be surprised that the similarities end there. Camille is older than Caroline will ever be, and she spends her nights in one of the darkest, most dangerous places on Earth. She flirts shamelessly with a guy like Marcel, and isn't the least bit afraid of Klaus even though all sings point towards the fact that she might know what kind of monster he actually is. Nothing—actually _nothing_—seems to indicate that a girl like Camille would be at all familiar with the ways and customs of the small-town, Southern-Belle socialite that Caroline was being trained to become when one fateful day vampires took over her hometown.

Well, whatever suits the college graduate bartender, really.

Caroline can adapt and overcome like a pro. She's the supernatural creature here, isn't she? She sharpens her smile and shrugs, not really _that_ apologetically. "Well, I'm assuming you're here because Klaus invited you."

Camille nods, her eyes darting for a second to where Klaus is standing with a different pair of wolves—Caroline can only assume—still close enough to the stage so their conversation remains safe-guarded from prying ears nearby. No that there are that many vampires among the couple dozens of guests in the party. Elijah is sitting with Bonnie and Sophie on the relatively isolated mosaic bistro set that is partially hidden behind the lush Southern live oak, eastside from the lake. Rebekah and Stefan have found their way back to the dance floor—or rather, dance _grass_—and from what Caroline has gathered, only a handful of Klaus's 'friends and associates' in the city are actually vampires. Most of the vamps are controlled by Marcel, like most of the witches—

Camille's light-hearted voice interrupts Caroline's mental assemblage. "That's why I meant, actually. Why would _Klaus_ invite me to his party? I'm just a human girl, aren't I? I shouldn't be worth much more than the crab rolls on the appetizers table."

There's no malice in her words, Caroline realizes. No bitterness. Her smile is genuine and tender, and Caroline finds herself at loss for wards. Camille doesn't hold _that_ against her, either. Her smile deepens, and her pretty blue eyes shine beneath the sifted lights of moonshine and multi-coloured paper lanterns. "It's okay to be curious, Caroline. Well, at least I hope it is," she grins, no trace of condescension in her words. She actually sounds a bit sheepish. "I must confess I am a bit, well, a _lot_ curious about you myself."

Once again, like the first time they meet, Caroline can't help but find Camille's smile extremely infectious. She returns her grin and takes a sip from her drink. "I just—" she begins, dodging a stutter with a tilt of her head. "I never thought Klaus would have human friends. I mean, no offence—" to your species, she finds herself thinking, shockingly, "—but I always thought his only interest in humans was for, you know…"

Her words trail off, because she genuinely doesn't want to say, _nourishment_. But Camille only shrugs, her smile unwavering. "A snack?" she chortles. "Well, to be completely truthful, I don't know that much about Klaus, only met him less than a year ago, but I must say I also never suspected he had a hidden girlfriend somewhere he didn't want anyone to find, because apparently he's legitimately terrified that something bad may happen to you."

Again, no malice. No bitterness. No trace of any possible hidden threat, behind her easygoing observation. It's hard for Caroline to do anything but smile shyly, shaking her head in half-hearted dismissal. "I'm not his girlfriend."

If only it was that simple.

Camille chuckles, drinking from her glass of Champagne and rolling her shoulders before fixing her eyes on Caroline, open and curious. "If I go with my brain, I'd say this is but another chapter in a long, turbulent, unfinished long story that's been going on for centuries. But my guts tell me that's not actually the case, is it?"

"Perceptive," Caroline concedes, her eyes mindlessly travelling away to locate Klaus among the crowd. He's nowhere to be seen, which makes her a bit uneasy. For all she knows he's seen them and has found its way into the shadows to eavesdrop comfortably. Well, it's not like Caroline has the slightest intention to lie, so she takes another small sip and disciplines her face into a relaxed smile. "It's really not a long story. I only met Klaus less than two years ago. He tried to kill me a couple times because of the usual reasons of havoc-wreaking and mayhem-inviting, you know, and then he invited me to a dance. He decided to seduce me and we're still sorting out the specifics of how that plan is going."

Camille laughs warmly, but then she shakes her head as if to deny Caroline's version of the story. When she speaks, her voice comes out as gentle as her smile. "He is in love with you, though."

Confirm or deny?

Caroline looks away, hides her eyes in the deep, narrow bottom of her fancy Champagne flute. Her first instinct is to deflect; hit back. _And you are in love with him_, she wants to say. But she really doesn't want to put Camille in that position. She doesn't sound bitter or spiteful at all. She sounds genuinely fascinated by the unexpected turn of events. Hot evil ancient vampire hybrid is revealed to be hiding a deep, sorrowfully-held, this side of unrequited love for a young vampire from small-town Virginia. Who would have ever thought?

"How old are you, Caroline?"

At first she doesn't want to reply. Wasn't this conversation about figuring out why Klaus is friends with a human girl? Why he keeps her in his inner circle, invites her to the small, private parties he celebrates in his home? But it's a nice change of topic from Camille's previous statement, more or less, and Caroline welcomes the rather mundane but logical question. So she looks back at Camille and offers a small smile; makes as much of an effort as she can so it doesn't' come out too sad. "Seventeen," she says, but she quickly corrects herself. "Nineteen."

Not that it makes much of a difference.

Camille's unflinching smile weakens a bit, not surprisingly. But her eyes remain kind and warm, sympathetic as she whispers, "I'm sorry."

Caroline's first instinct is to brush it off. Crack a joke about fate and how an evil, self-loving bitch actually turned her so Klaus could sacrifice her in some freaky bloody ritual, but she thinks better of it. She doesn't know how much Camille knows. She doesn't know much about Camille, either, and she's beginning to suspect it's not a coincidence, or entirely innocent on Camille's part that the conversation has solely focused on Caroline so far. She approached Camille to maybe get to know her a bit, figure her out, but since they began talking, she has surrendered all control over the conversation. But not anymore. She's already shared too much. So she changes her strategy, goes for a more direct approach as she sits up, leaning on the wooden backrest of the arbour. "You were right." She turns her face to look at Camille straight in the eye, crossing her legs. "I am wondering what the hell you're doing here."

Camille's perpetual smile doesn't even quiver as she raises her hands in mock surrender, Champagne glass included in the peace offering. "Fair enough," she chuckles, leaning back on her seat herself before sighing, and softening her eyes as she returns Caroline's inquisitive gaze. "I was born and raised in this city, grew up knowing who Marcel is, and what my place was as a human girl living this side of town. Most of my friends were scared of him, until one day, as it happens to all humans in this place—well, they just stopped being afraid. I was never scared of him, however. I was fascinated. How could it be possible that someone claimed to be pure evil, but was able to charm and swindle a whole town, make it thrive under his wing like it hasn't in over a century? I wanted to understand, I guess. So I started hanging around Marcel's side of town, grew closer to some of his vampires… and eventually he noticed me. He could tell immediately how I felt about him, but he wasn't interested in me in a sexual way, so we became friends, kind of." The more she speaks, the farther her eyes travel as they slide away from Caroline's puzzled gaze. She leans forward, clenches her hands around the edge of her seat, and exhales. "Marcel and his vampires very rarely kill anyone. That's how they sustain the peace. They have all the blood they can drink, all the fun and pleasure they can enjoy. Music, partying, girls, boys… and no repercussions, no price to pay. Everybody in New Orleans knows what they are and what they do, and everybody accepts it. There's a balance in the way life flows inland in this city. It's a perfectly well-oiled food chain, and nobody questions it. At least, nobody did until—"

Caroline doesn't really have to ask, but she plays along when Camille goes quiet, prompting Caroline to speak. "Until—?"

"Dead bodies started piling up in the streets, about a bit less than a year ago."

_Klaus_.

First step to regain his kingdom? Unsettle the brittle peace holding together the usurper's reign. It makes sense. It's a perfectly calculated; perfectly ruthless, perfectly _Klaus_ move. He has no regards for human lives. They are but collateral damage. An utility employed for whatever specific purpose at hand. Caroline knows. Caroline has always known. She's past the point of being bothered with the hypocrisy of getting outraged for the sake of her own moral compass. So she does shrug that one off, metaphorically speaking. "So how did you end up working at _The Howlin' Wolf_?"

"I started working there freshman year, actually. It was part of my plan to be around Marcel, but the place was just a regular cheap hole until Klaus took it," she explains. "I'm not sure why he kept me there. I guess that, like Marcel, he also knew how I felt about him. It was convenient that he could count on me, and I knew Marcel, and how he's been ruling this city. I was useful, I guess."

Caroline frowns. Funny how after everything Camille has told her, she still doesn't understand a thing. So better cut the chase, stop beating around the bush, and get to the point, right? Caroline swallows, repeating Camille's unashamed words. "How you felt about him."

Camille nods, but she doesn't look at Caroline. She keeps her eyes unfocused, a wistful expression shading her pretty face. "I thought Marcel was fascinating, you know? He was so powerful, so dangerous. I had to know the whole story. And then—" She chuckles, sounds almost self-conscious as she does it. "Then I met Klaus, and _everything_ changed."

Caroline doesn't really want to, but she ends up mirroring Camille's little laugh. "Yeah," she mutters, mostly to herself. "I can relate."

The moment of reflective melancholia passes quickly, though. Camille shakes it off by clearing her throat and emptying her drink before she stands up. Caroline follows her movement instinctively, and so they both stand beneath the arbour, staring at the dancing, drinking, chatting guests of Klaus's little party. Caroline speaks first. "What happened between you and Marcel? You said you were friends, but if you're here now—"

She lets her words trail off, the ensuing silence carrying the implications eloquently. If Camille is here now, if Camille knows who Caroline is, if Klaus trusts her—

Camille smiles once again, turns her face to Caroline tilting her shoulders. "I'm sort of a double agent, except not really," she chuckles. "I mean, I still talk to Marcel, and I wish him no harm. But I picked a side, and I guess Marcel's spent enough time with Klaus's family over the years, that he's learned to be a man of honour. He respects my decision, doesn't reveal any information to me, and doesn't try to get me to double-cross Klaus." Her voice falters and her eyes haze, a kind of absent-minded look taking over her features. "It wouldn't work, anyway. I'm mostly a spectator. I watch and listen and keep quiet unless someone asks me a direct question."

It hits Caroline like a sack of bricks. Camille has been _compelled_.

She barely manages to hold back a gasp when she realizes, quickly averting her eyes, just in case. It's pointless, she figures. Probably, Camille already knows, and doesn't even care. As she herself has said, as a human raised this side of town, she's possibly no stranger to compulsion. Most likely scenario is that both Marcel and Klaus have compelled her, and between them, they have reached a perfect equilibrium on how to handle her, so they can both benefit from the company and perspective of a clever, clear-eyed and well-informed human who worships at their altar.

It's sick.

It's also the way it goes.

Camille is compelled—to _what _exactly, Caroline can't even phantom. Tyler is compelled too. The entire human population of New Orleans has been enslaved. Marcel's vampire army is probably no more than a bunch of brain-washed, terrorized vampires, tricked like fools to dare stand in the way of the original family. The witches of the city have been coerced, restrained and their magic is being held captive. Klaus's wolves are only loyal to him out of some freaky wolf lore genetic predisposition.

It's a battle of two individual wills to power. Two kings in feud.

The rest of the world be damned.

The pretty young girl onstage sings on. _The moonlight on the bayou a Creole tune that fills the air. I dream about magnolias in bloom and I'm wishin' I was there._

_Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans?_

Caroline shivers despite the cold she doesn't feel, and quickly turns her face to Camille as she begins to walk away. "I should go find my friend Bonnie," she says. "It was really nice talking to you."

Camille raises her empty glass and returns her smile. "Yeah," she breathes. "See you, Caroline."

With a brisk nod, Caroline disappears, her elegant Champagne flute falling to the grass, and breaking delicate in two, the way only expensive glass breaks.

Not thinking of why, or what for, she flashes up to her room, doesn't stop until she's gripping the side jambs of the window, knuckles white, fingertips red as blood as her eyes roam the gathering of people beneath.

Klaus is nowhere to be found, but that is okay. She isn't looking for him. Her eyes settle instead on Bonnie as she regains her breath after the race up the stairs. Bonnie's standing by the bar, talking animatedly with Stefan and Rebekah. A quick scan of the dance floor and Caroline notices Elijah dancing with Sophie. They're both smiling. Nobody looks worried. Nobody seems to care, the way Caroline cares, about every mystery that she doesn't understand. The wolves, the witches, the vampires… Everything seems to fit perfectly, seamlessly like in a morbid twisted puppet show. But Caroline's sitting in the audience, and she never got to see the programme before she bought the tickets to the show, and now—

"Everything alright, love?"

The sound of his voice, deep and familiar, makes her tremble. She wraps her arms around herself, clenching her fists on her forearms and hugging herself while she thinks, _nothing is alright_. But the moment of panic doesn't last long.

In half a second he's standing right behind her, his chest pressed to her back, and his strong warm hands are in her arms, undoing the knot of her limbs around her waist and running down his fingers from her shoulders to the back of her hands as they fall heavily by her sides. He massages the tense muscles of her upper arms soothingly for a short while, before wrapping his own arms around her waist and holding her close. She feels his gaze heavy on her face, trailing the path from her eyes to the party downstairs. She turns towards him and notices his eyes are locked on his brother and Sophie.

The regretful song comes to an end—

_And there's something more… I miss the one I care for, more than I miss New Orleans._

—and Sophie and Elijah pull apart.

Klaus only presses Caroline closer, and so she sighs. "You trust her?"

She doesn't understand much of the war she has stumbled into, but she can take a wild guess and bet that the witches are the key to ending it. Sophie's powerful. She's a rebel, and Elijah seems to really care for her, but now Bonnie has been dragged into it, and Caroline can't help but worry. There are too many variables she doesn't control, and she doesn't want her friends to simply fall into any of the squarely marked off categories that seem to regulate the life in New Orleans. It's a fucked-up game of chess, and it seems like even though Marcel has more pawns in his army, and stronger Rooks, he is lacking a Queen after one of Klaus's Bishops stole away Sophie. Bonnie cannot be—

"It's easy to trust someone when you know their endgame, love," Klaus whispers, his mouth open against the groove of her neck. "Sophie wants to save the witches, and Bonnie will die before she lets anything happen to you. Don't worry, they'll do the spell and—"

Caroline untangles violently from his embrace, turns around in a flash and hits his chest with the back of her clenched fist, a bit more forcefully than he was expecting. He stumbles back a step, widens his eyes as her voice rises. "Bonnie will _not_ die."

He recovers quickly from the shock of her onslaught. Before she can even notice he's moved at all, he's grabbed her by the shoulders, pushed her back vigorously against the wall, and pinned her body with his. His eyes are huge and dark and angry. "_Anyone_ will die, Caroline. Before I let them hurt you."

She scoffs, unafraid. Her hands ball on his dark button-up shirt to at least keep the space of her fists between their bodies. "_I _will die before I let anyone hurt my friends."

His eyes narrow, gleaming a dark shade of yellow. His hands move from her shoulders to grab her hands and hold them up above her head, and as her breath hitches, her hips involuntarily pressing against his crotch when she squirms, trying helplessly to break free, his eyes sink into her, as sharp and gripping as his fangs. "You will _never_ die."

Never is a promise, Caroline knows.

She feels her eyes fill with tears, tears of impotence and fear and love; and immediately his monstrous eyes soften into a deep pool of endless blue.

He kisses her.

It's needy and desperate and violent, and _nothing_ like Klaus, who is always in control. Always. Even in the most intense throes of passion, even when he _seems_ about to lose control—he never does. Never relinquishes power. Never surrenders to her. But now—

His hands fist in her hair, grabbing and pulling like that time he bit her in Elena's living room and she thought, this is _it_, it was never meant to end any other way. How utterly _wrong_ she was. It almost makes her want to laugh, when the memory of his teeth tearing up her flesh sends a rush of hot liquid want right into her core, and she has to jerk her mouth away from his, sink her teeth into her bottom lip and hit the wall behind her with the back of her head to keep herself from biting him.

A gash opens right in the crease that parts her lip in two, and before it can heal, he's taken the tender flesh in his mouth and is viciously sucking out her blood.

A long, throaty moan breaks out off the roof of her mouth, and he swallows that too, smirking a self-satisfied half-grin when he pulls away and presses his finger to the wound in her mouth. "Shush," he nods towards the open window, pulling his finger away to lick her blood off it. "You don't want anyone to hear us, do you?"

She opens her mouth but no words come out. She flinches at the pain pulling at her gums, her fangs dropping as the veins over her cheekbones fill up with the blood racing up to the whites of her eyes. Klaus takes a step away to look at her closely, his hand softly cupping her cheek as his lips turn up languidly into a spellbound smile.

The rapt look in his eyes stops dead the delirious pattering of Caroline's heart.

She knows what happens each time she falls.

Each time, she falls deeper, and she knows, she _knows_, each time will only be harder to bring herself out. If the day comes (three days left three days left _three days left_) when she decides that she wants to walk out. But that's the problem, you see?

(He tilts his head and his smile twitches as his hands burrow beneath her skirt.)

She doesn't know that she wants to walk out.

It's easy to be afraid of what it means, _being with Klaus_, when he is standing at the other end of the room, talking business with the minions he controls and manipulates and dictates over like they're just _things_. It's easy to think that _no way_, she cannot _ever_ love him.

(He peels her panties off her legs but lets the soft muslin of her dress fall softly over her thighs as he effortlessly wraps her legs around his waist. On pure instinct and need, still hissing in hunger, burning with lust, her hands rush to undo his dress pants.)

She can't let herself fall. Not now. Not _yet_. Or else little _good_ Caroline Forbes will disappear into the super-massive black hole of his darkness, and then—

He kisses her lips so softly, the tip of his tongue barely darting out to trace the ridge of her fangs before his lips brush over her cheek, going to hide in the crook of her shoulder so he can bare his neck to her mouth. He doesn't need to say a word.

She bites into him and sucks, the beast inside taking over as she drinks. And painstakingly slow, in full control, he buries himself inside her, goes in as deep as he can before he stops, not moving an inch.

He waits patiently for her to fully experience it. For her to realize that there is really no going back from this. His blood down her throat and his cock up inside her. There was never any difference, because now he's worm his dangerous way into her blood system, and the infection of his poison is lethal. It always was. She always knew.

Life is blood. She is a vampire. _Love_ is blood.

She gasps as the terror of her love surges through her body, and she presses herself closer to him. Wraps her legs tighter around his waist, scratches her nails harder over the silk of his shirt, sinks her fangs a little deeper, and lets him love her the only way he knows how.

At first, he barely moves; only undulates his hips against her until she finally unlatches her lips from his flesh with a wet _pop_, the blood gushing out enticingly off his open wound and falling thick and heavy down the open V of his neck. Caroline moans quietly in pleasure, enthralled, rocking her hips down against him as she licks the blood off, presses her tongue forcefully over his healing wound until he grunts, and, at last, the sharp, short, circular thrusts of his hips grow quick enough to tear her down.

He scoops her up afterwards, when her legs betray her and she almost falls.

Still fully clothed, shoes on and all, he moves them until he's sitting on her unused bed, his back resting comfortably against the headboard as he tucks her in into his chest. Her whole body is tingling; her heart is beating madly once again. She feels feverish and weak, hates herself for needing to cling to him the way she does, her hands grabbing desperately at his bloodstained shirt, refusing to let go. She can barely muster the strength to whisper, "We should go back to the party."

He breathes in deeply, and she feels the heaving of his chest rocking her warmly, lulling her. He'll have to change his shirt, and then everyone will know what they're been up to. But Caroline can't bring herself to care. She doesn't want to move. Not ever again. She can't think beyond that, and Klaus apparently feels the same way. He murmurs voicelessly, his lips pressed to the top of her head, "In a minute,"—and he squeezes her against him.

—

**tbc.**

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**So… the witches' backstory will have to wait for next chapter, in which Klaus and Caroline will drop by Marcel's hotel the night before the Masquerade ;) Hope you still liked this chapter! As always, thank you so **_**so**_** much for reading! Let me know what you thought!**

**Oh, and I estimate that this fic will probably have 20 chapters, even though it isn't fixed yet. But just in case that ends up being the case, congrats on making it to the back ten! ;) It makes me feel both, proud and sad that we're closer to the end that we are to beginning...**


	12. Chapter 12

**Hello guys! Thanks as always for your feedback on Chapter 11 and for still being interested in this story. That means so much to me, really!**

**I hope you'll like this new chapter! ;)**

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**Chapter 12**

**.-.**

Monday evening, not twenty-four hours before the Mardi Gras masquerade ball of the Mistick Krewe of Comus, Sophie arrives at the Mikaelsons', hands unshaking and chin held high, Caroline notices; ready to cast the spell that is meant to keep them all alive. Bonnie and Elijah are waiting inside as Klaus drags Caroline out the door, insistent, tapping his foot impatiently when she stops in her way out to hug Bonnie tightly. "I love you," she whispers, just because she does.

Bonnie returns her embrace just as enthusiastically.

"Come on, love," Klaus urges her on from the other side of the front door. "Everything will be alright, we're just standing in their way."

Caroline nods, pulling herself away. She doesn't understand why it feels like she's saying goodbye, when she'll see Bonnie again in a few hours. Tomorrow morning at the latest. They're only casting a spell, and not a life-threatening one, which, going by Bonnie's standards, is actually unusual enough. Still, it's just a cheering hug. Caroline is only wishing the best to Bonnie and Sophie, encouraging them and showing them her unmoving faith in their otherworldly magical abilities.

_Everything will be alright._

She trusts Bonnie with her life.

Still—

She's a worrier and her thoughts keep spinning madly and, she realizes, they've been walking in silence for at least five minutes when Caroline first thinks of asking Klaus, "Where are we going?"

They're obviously walking downtown. Fine by her. It's not like they can exert themselves, you see—they're vampires, after all, and it's a lovely, warm, beautiful evening. The moon isn't full by a wisp, twenty four hours yet to go; and the sky is clear: a bright, not too dark shade of navy blue.

Klaus's voice sounds almost indifferent when he answers, eyes fixed on his tattered boots, "We're paying Marcel a short routine visit, then we'll meet Stefan and Rebekah to maybe catch the end of the Krewe of Zeus Parade before we hit the Lakeview pubs. Traditional, unpretentious, delicious seafood, and a lot of fun. You'll love 'em."

Caroline's feet stop dead; she almost screeches down the pavement, dust billowing up like a cartoon, she is sure. "We're going to see Marcel," she half says, half asks. "You're taking _me_ to see Marcel?"

Wasn't Klaus, oh so worried that Marcel would figure out who she is, and kill her dead to get to him?

He takes her hand in his—just to get her to start walking again, no doubt; not to offer any cuddly softy comfort. "It's the last night before _Mardi Gras_, sweetheart," he drawls in perfect, gorgeous, mouth-watering French. "I'm spending it with my lovely _Mardi Gras_ companion before she has to leave town. That's also the reason why you're coming to the Ball tomorrow, isn't it? I'm not taking _you _to see Marcel. You'll just _happen_ to be with me while _I_ pay a visit to Marcel. It'll be quick, so don't worry."

Caroline nods. Follows his lead because what else can she do, really? He doesn't let of her hand, anyway-and she's happy to clutch at straws to keep her mind off the fact that it is, indeed, the last night before Mardi Gras, and Klaus's lovely companion for the holiday will be leaving town soon. Or not.

Perhaps as an unconscious distraction technique to keep her thoughts far away from her impending encounter with Marcel, and from her a-little-less-impending separation from Klaus (or not), her mind won't give a rest to the situation they just left back home. Her best friend Bonnie casting a spell with a witch they don't even know, but who is powerful enough to draw the originals and gather them around her. To escape Marcel's enslavement. To recover the magic that her family has brewed over generations after all magic was swept away from the free streets of New Orleans.

She lets go of Klaus's hand, feeling strangely awkward, and crosses her arms over her chest. The pace of their steps slows down immediately, and Caroline worries her lip. "You sure you trust Sophie?"

Klaus tilts his head to look at her with a raised eyebrow. "We talked about this. Elijah trusts her, and I know what she wants, and that she needs me to achieve it. She will not betray us. She and my brother, well—"

His words trail off eloquently, but honestly, Caroline couldn't care less about the state of Elijah's ancient stone-cold heart. She pulls her brows, tight. "What does she want?"

Klaus rolls his shoulders. "To free the witches, of course."

Free the witches from their servitude to Marcel. But _how_?

"What happened?" Caroline asks, curiosity getting the best of her. She's about to meet with Marcel, isn't she? He who might be diabolically plotting her death for tomorrow night. "How did Marcel get control over all the witches in the city? Bonnie said witches have been practising in New Orleans just as longs as vampires have lived here."

Klaus nods, his steps falling into a slow dawdle as he gets ready for story-telling. "Witch communities are egalitarian by nature. Witches don't like hierarchies. Their groups operate through assemblies and consensus but, once in every while, there's always a power-hungry witch who will genuinely believe, as I am sure it is true, that their outstanding abilities justify a bit of tyranny to be executed above the rest of the coven, for the sake of the common prosperity." He smirks, looking strangely self-satisfied. "A few decades ago—at that time I was trying to shake Mikael off my trail across the Carpathians so the details may be fuzzy but, well, I think it was the nineteen-seventies, I believe, when a little wilful rebellious witch, a descendant from an age-old, extraordinarily powerful family of New Orleans servants of nature, was driven insane by her power lust and struck a deal with a bad _bad_ vampire."

He goes silent and clicks with his tongue, like he doesn't really need to say anything more. Of course the bad _bad_ vampire tricked the power-crazed witch. Of course the witch's wishes for tyranny quickly vanished into Marcel's unscrupulous dominion of the whole community of witches in the city. But, still, _how_—?

Klaus answers before Caroline can pose the question. "The witches are controlled by a spell that is bound to the descendants of the Lanier line—that was the witch's name. For as long as Lanier witches continue to live, the spell will never be broken, unless, that is, a Lanier witch casts it off herself." A thoughtful expression drapes over his features, and Caroline feels almost tempted to grab his hand again, bring him back before he flies away. But he shakes his pensiveness off quickly with a long exhalation. "Only a handful of very powerful witches, like Sophie, have managed to escape the influx of the Lanier curse. Most of them have fled the country, or are living in the farthest ends of it, where they can practice in peace. Only Sophie has stayed to fight for the freedom of her people, which of course Elijah finds a gesture of the utmost nobility—"

"So he made a deal with her. You and your family help her revolution catch fire and, in return, the witches allow you to take Marcel's place if you allow them to practice freely—"

"—which doesn't strike you as a much cleverer move than Marie Lanier's deal with Marcel, does it?" Klaus chuckles in good humour. "Well, at least the lovely spirited Sophie had the good sense of going to Elijah instead of coming to me. You have to give her some credit for that, don't you?"

Caroline's mouth curls into an amused-despite-herself little smile. "So you do have a plan for the witches…"

"Well," he shrugs. "If bad comes to worse I could always kill Davina."

Davina? Caroline focuses on the bits and pieces that she knows, and quickly concludes, "Marie Lanier's descendant."

"Davina Lanier," Klaus nods, smiling at her warmly as he turns around fully to look at her while walking backwards for a few steps. His grin twitches in barely-contained irritation, though. "There are complications to killing her."

Caroline frowns. "What complications?"

Klaus stops walking and waits for Caroline to catch up with him before he starts moving again, walking side by side with her. "Well, we're pretty sure we can't just _severe_ the spell without facing terrible, unpredictable consequences," he sighs. "Also, she's just a child."

Caroline's frown deepens. "So what, you don't hurt children? Did you grow scruples or something?"

He actually rolls his eyes at her. "Believe me, love. I'd kill the child happily, but I'm certain Marcel has covered his bases. Not in vain, he learned from the best."

Caroline returns the eye-roll much more easily than she usual returns his self-pleased, shamelessly flirtatious smiles. "Right."

He tilts his shoulders nonchalantly. "I can be impulsive at times, I won't deny it. But I don't usually, deliberately, take desperate measures unless I can weigh in all the possible ramifications." He shakes his head, smacking his lips as if in disappointment. "Besides, Sophie has made us swear no harm will come to the girl."

Caroline nods. Right. "So _no_ plan for the witches, then."

He doesn't give anything away. Barely even acknowledges her remark but with an automatic shrug. Caroline ignores his dismissal, focusing on something else instead. Killing the child, he wishes he could do. Not that she ever thought Klaus is above killing children. The idea behind the massacre of the innocents was probably his. Yeah, he hadn't been born in biblical terms, but still. You get the point, right?

It's a dark, unsurprising thought that propels her to confine her vertiginous reflections to the messy quietness of her head. She doesn't say a word, and neither does Klaus as the streets grow narrower around them, the crowd thicker and noisier as the dark moonlit night shifts into a diffused variety of dimmed, wasted colours. The loud shrieking noises of a hundred trumpeters mix in the air with the hot, spicy scent of pepper and celery that seeps out of the nearby lunch wagons. A thousand heartbeats drum in synchrony around them, and Caroline's stomach clenches in hunger.

Thank God they barely brush the side of the crowd boiling in the French Quarter as they walk down Elysian Fields Avenue, turning across Washington Square into Frenchmen Street. Marcel's quaint Bayou St. John hotel stands in the crossing of Esplanade Avenue, a lacklustre shade of dark pink and yet overwhelmingly beautiful and enticing.

Caroline can't help herself. She stops and stares, but only for a second before Klaus grabs her hand again, pulling her inside without giving her the chance to actually think too much about it.

They walk down a darkened narrow corridor, lightened by golden, ancient-looking candelabra and filled up with wooden Georgian chairs Caroline keeps bumping her knees into as she treads behind Klaus. She breathes out relieved when they step out into the patio. She barely has time to flinch at the bright yellow light coming down of the thousand light bulbs hanging from the balconies of the guest rooms above before Klaus leads her to one of the dozen of lined-up beautiful iron patio sets placed tastefully around the swimming pool. It's a gorgeous place, and when Caroline realizes that, shockingly enough, the guests drinking cocktails around them are actually _all _human, she is only surprised by the obvious reasons of why would somebody like Marcel manage a tourist hotel for _humans_. Not by the fact that tourists are in fact drawn to the old-enough-looking, quaint, picturesque hotel bridging the loose ends of the French Quarter and the Mardi Gras district eastward.

Still, why would Marcel—?

"Two Rose Sangrias _especiales, por favor_."

Klaus deep, most seductive voice makes Caroline turn her face to the pretty waitress he's charming the pants off just with a dimpled smile and a dark bend of his velvety voice, stroking his coarse throat roughly to drawl out the words in his perfect Spanish. Ugh. She really wants to punch his cocky smirk right back against his teeth, because _ugh_. He's still smiling alluringly when the waitress turns around, and he follows with his eyes the sensual, deliberate sway of her perfectly perky hips. It takes Caroline two seconds of blinding jealous and insulted rage to realize it's all plotted out. It's part of the game. He wants her jealous and outraged the way a self-entitled college girl would feel if the guy whose bed she's been warming for a week treated her like she's not really worth most of his time or his complete undivided attention.

She fumes, in character, and he looks at her with cold, indifferent eyes. Like she's just the no-one she is pretending to be. It makes her realize how much she has grown to depend on just the enthralled look in his eyes every time he glances at her when they're alone, even if they're actually standing in the middle of the crowd. Damn him. She gets so caught up in her own spinning thoughts, because God _really_ damn _him_, she misses him loving her even when he only stops loving her for just a minute—

—that she doesn't react in any way when the bewitched waitress leaves their cocktails on the table and Klaus flippantly comments, "They're made with the guests' freshly drained blood. Take a long gulp. You'll love it."

She does.

She loves her cocktail almost as much as she hates her life when Marcel strolls confidently down the patio towards them, grabbing a chair on his way to sit with them. He places his chair arrogantly close to Caroline, her name ringing out of his wide smile as he settles his hand on her shoulder, his fingernails pushing the strap of her sundress down her arm as he stretches his fingers over her shoulder. "So good to see you again, cupcake."

Caroline bites back a flinch as her whole body clenches beneath his invading, unapologetic c touch. She's still thinking of the blood and brandy she can taste against the roof of her mouth, drained of the unsuspecting, most certainly compelled guests of Marcel's hotel. It makes her nauseated that she finds the taste delicious and yet cannot let go of the self-loathing that it provokes in her, knowing how utterly wrong it is. She looks at Klaus, unmindfully seeking for the kind of comfort she knows better than to expect. He's smiling wolfishly, his eyes soft on Marcel's intent gaze, a million miles away from Marcel's daring hand pressed warm and kind of terrifyingly against Caroline's skin. Like he hasn't even noticed that Marcel is touching her.. Couldn't care less, really.

And yet he sharpens his smile, leans back on his chair when Marcel asks in greeting, echoing Klaus's words from their previous meeting, "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Klaus raises his glass before taking a long swallow. "Best sangria in town," he grins, nods his head towards Caroline without sparing her a glance. "Lovely way to start my next-to-last evening with the lovely Caroline."

_Next to last_. Caroline's heart jumps in her chest and for a second she's afraid that both, Klaus and Marcel can hear its missing beats. Marcel can't know she has any reason to be afraid. Klaus can't know that the thought of one last night paralyzes with more fear than any diabolical plan Marcel might be hiding up his sleeve. It becomes increasingly worrisome, how well these two monsters can read her, when Klaus's words—on cue, Caroline's guessing—swiftly prompt Marcel to look back at her.

His fingers squeeze her shoulder and his smile bends honeysuckle, tooth-aching sweet. "You having fun, angel?"

Caroline draws a pretty smile on her face, and straightens her back, leaning closer to his touch. "A blast," she beams, darting her eyes to Klaus and painting an annoyingly adoring expression on her face. She barely has to fake it, which is all kinds of pathetic—so quickly she turns her face back to Marcel. "I can't wait for the Masquerade Ball tomorrow. I've never been to one of those before."

"Oh, _ma_ _chérie_," Marcel sing-songs, his wide smile shining white and beautiful beneath the glowing yellow brightness of the bare light bulbs draped over the patio. His tongue darts out to wet his lips. "It's going to be _délicieuse_."

Barely containing the urge to roll her eyes at the _délicieux _French—this is New Orleans, after all, and Marcel is the self-appointed Creole King—Caroline takes the morbid hint without hesitation. Unfazed, she returns both his grin and his unwavering stare, and nodding her head she takes the cocktail to her lips, shamelessly glossing them with blood. She takes (guilty) comfort and (make-believe) courage from the surge of dizziness that rushes through her when, deliberately, to better play the game, she takes pleasure in the lollipop-sweet taste of the blood mixed up with the brandy and the chunks of peach floating in her glass. Marcel's dark eyes take her in slowly, glimmering like newly varnished ebony; they slide over her face warmly, his gaze deep and intense but never indecent—just like the touch of his hand.

It's an electrifying pull, the staring contests he traps her in; but it snaps violently when Klaus's impatient voice seeps into Caroline's trance, shattering it.

"I trust everything's ready for the party?" he asks. "It's only the most relevant social event of the season, and you seem distracted, Marcel. You know better than disappointing the elite, don't you, my friend?"

By _elite_, Caroline knows, Klaus means himself.

Marcel of course doesn't agree. "I am the elite now," he smirks. "It's the Rex parade tomorrow, isn't it?

"Indeed," Klaus grins a terrible dimpled, self-pleased smile. "I was just asking because, turns out, the lovely Caroline has informed me that she's actually quite skilled at this particular kind of task—you know, party planning and whatnot. I thought maybe you could use her help to sort out whatever last minute hiccups may come up."

Caroline's heart doesn't even have the time to skip a beat before Marcel slides his hand languidly down her arm, finally letting go of her to fixate all his undivided attention solely on Klaus. He tilts his head. "Well, as _charmant_ as I am sure it would be, sharing my time with your girl, I'm afraid I can't use the excuse. There aren't any loose ends I need to take care off."

The threat is evident, despite the big smile and the relaxed slouch of Marcel's shoulders; and the clear bait, _your girl_. Klaus doesn't even flinch, though. He only shrugs detachedly and downs the remainder of his cocktail without his devious grin ever quavering. "Good to hear."

He stands up without warning, still not bothering to even look at Caroline as he extends his hand towards her. Like she is meant to grab it and follow his wordless command without a hint of a protest. Like she is supposed to _obey _him. It makes her want to huff and ball her fists, but she knows damn better than going off-book under the current circumstances, so what she does is roll her eyes secretively at Marcel, casting a disappointed look towards her unfinished bloody cocktail. She grabs Klaus's hand feigning resignation as she allows his extreme strength to smoothly pull her up against him.

It's shameful, the fact that just the rough feeling of his palm pressed tight against her clammy skin can send such an overpowering warm wave of comfort and relief surging through her veins.

Ugh.

He makes it even worse by tucking her closer to him, even as his eyes (still!) never fall far from Marcel's arrogant and overconfident smile. Klaus doesn't hesitate to smile back. "Well see you tomorrow, then."

His stiff back, the sharp edges of his grin, and the dark curve his words take towards the end—it all coalesces, fuses together in a deadly combo, screaming, _bring it_.

Both fighters are ready for the bell to toll.

Marcel nods indifferently and doesn't even bother standing up to shake their hands or walk them out, so they walk out on their own. He doesn't even acknowledge Caroline at all, which would be slightly disconcerting if it wasn't by Klaus's smug smirk. He's once again managed to play Marcel so he completely forgets that Caroline is even in the picture. Still, though, she frowns internally as Klaus pulls her out into the crowded, raging streets.

He squeezes her fingers in his, and groans loudly. "We'll go around the Quarter and take the Canal Street Streetcar. We'll never make it to the lakeside half of the city in time for the parade anyway, and truth be told, I've had it with drunken, half-naked tourists for the year." He's pulling her by the hand before she can react in any way, walking uptown with firm long strides, towards less crowded streets. He's so determined to get away from the loud, overwhelming partying multitude that she struggles to keep up with his pace, actually breaking into a trot as he drags her on behind him and among the raucous throngs of people, all the way mumbling under his teeth like Grumpy, the Dwarf. "Bloody inebriated morons. I swear they either clear from my path or I will get testy and eat my way across town."

Eat _all_ the tourists on Lundi Gras. Wouldn't that be quite the creative way to raise hell and thwart Marcel's plans for tomorrow night?

The streetcar is almost as crowded as the streets, and despite Klaus's moody mood—which Caroline has no doubts, has nothing to do with the tens of thousands of extra meals crowding New Orleans right before the climax of the holiday, and _everything_ to do with Marcel's not-so-veiled threat about all the possible loose ends for the Masquerade being tightly knotted down—she still can't completely shake the smile off her face. She's never taken a streetcar before! It rattles on, hip and all bohemian with the wooden seats and the glass windows and the bright colours all about.

She presses her nose to the windowpane like a small child, allowing the mass of passengers to swallow her until she's hiding in the deepest corner of the tram. Klaus stands tall right behind her, his hands gripping her hips almost painfully. She looks at him over her shoulder, quirks her lips into a genuine smile. "I thought Mardi Gras was magical."

His eyes soften at her words, and he yanks her hips closer. He lowers his head to rest his lips on the hollow between her nape and her shoulder. His breath brushes hot over her bare skin as he whispers. "It has been magical, love. And you were _amazing_ tonight."

Her heart clenches painfully, as if squeezed by an invisible hand ripping through her chest.

She was amazing at playing the villain for the fool he never is. She's had practice, you see.

It's yet another dark thought, yes—one that grips her entrails and yanks painfully; makes her clench her teeth to keep the sudden, traitorous tears at bay as she realizes that _no_, it hasn't been magical. Not really—and yet—

—it truly has been. And it's over.

In a way—

—it's really _over _already.

It's their last night. Because if Caroline has learned something about attending dances, and facing off evil monsters, then she knows for a fact that all their fears will come true. Tomorrow. The world will explode.

And if doesn't—

—Mardi Gras will be over anyway.

No more excuses for guiltless self-indulgence in _the pleasures of the flesh_, as Klaus called it. No more time-outs. No more we-don't-talk-about-what-happens-after-Mardi-Gras- until-_after_-Mardi Gras. Time to face the music. Make a choice. Change her life forever—no going back—or just return to making as if it never was. For as long as she can keep on denying herself. Living in perpetual Lent.

Her breath hitches and she turns around in a flash, regardless of the crowd that surrounds them. Grabbing his face in her hands, she pulls him down for a deep kiss. It's _still _Mardi Gras, isn't it? Most people in the streets aren't wearing that _many_ clothes. She has seen people do things—out of the corner of her eye, mind you, she wasn't actually _looking_—that would make the Devil blush. A bit of a make-out in a crowded streetcar isn't really a big deal, is it?

He pulls away from her kiss with a slight frown knitting his brow, and it downs on Caroline, that this is the first time they have kissed in front of other people. A bunch of strangers yes, but away from the privacy and secrecy of his mansion, or that darkened empty alleyway her first night in town—

She lifts her shoulders and traps her bottom lip between her teeth, wrinkling up her nose coyly. "Just trying to keep your mind off the urge to _eat your way across town._"

The streetcar lurches forward, unexpectedly, pushing Klaus even tighter against her. He grabs the handlebar that's digging right into the small of her back and, as he does, his hips buck against hers. He grins, all traces of the dark vanished from his features as once again he sinks his face into the crook of her neck. "Dry sex in a crowded streetcar, love?" His tongue flattens over her pulse point, and his hands let go of the handlebar to grip her butt she can lean on the bar, her crotch pressed firmly against him. "It's not that long a ride."

Caroline's eyes roll back into her head, and, biting back a moan, she fists her hands on Klaus's skin-tight Henley. Who said anything about dry sex? Well, fuck him, really. Like he needs that long a _ride_ to make her come. Which, _uggh_. She's technically a teenager, okay? She wanted to make out with him in public 'cause it'd be fun and reckless and—

Turns out, and not for the first time, that just with a deft pinch of his fingers and a quick thrust of his hips, he makes her realize she actually didn't know what 'fun and reckless' actually is until now. When she's coming undone in a freaking jam-packed streetcar, his tongue curled against the roof of her mouth and the incessant rattling of the tram on the rails increasing the dry pull of the vibrations rushing through her system when the gentle, rhythmic strokes of his hips manage to send her over the edge before she can even breath out his name.

Damn _him_.

Her legs are stills shaking like you can't even imagine when he rushes her through the lakeside half of the city, their vampire speed carrying them closer to the lakefront in a matter of minutes. Her head's spinning and her heart is drumming madly and she can't stop laughing, in spite of the chilly empty streets miles north of the hustle-and-bustle of the Quarter. The quietness in the streets west off the City Park makes her feel like the whole wide world is theirs, and she feels euphoric. Like there are so many sides to the polyhedron that is New Orleans that she could lose herself in it and live a million different lives if she ever wished to.

"Klaus—"

She stops running. He turns to her and she is ready to tell him. _Whatever happens tomorrow_. She doesn't ever want to leave. She's ready—

—but then he looks at her with wide expectant eyes and Caroline realizes, they aren't speeding all over town anymore. They're standing in silence and the world isn't flashing by them like a fast-forwarded movie. It's real and she can see it and she can smell it and she can touch it—every single little infinite horror that surrounds her.

She swallows, and once again for the nth time that evening, Klaus extends his hand so she can take it, and without a word, he leads her around the corner and into an earthly lounge bar with shuffleboard tables and overflowing trays of Crawfish Boil. The first thing Caroline notices—besides the long tables and the delicious-smelling seafood—is that the small crowd of patrons are all humans, and none of them look like tourists. They're all locals, and they all look to be having a blast, the way they keep cheering on the tall hot blonde knocking back an endless row of multi-coloured shots up and down the bar like her life depends on it.

Rebekah.

Snorting in disbelief, Caroline's eyes quickly scan the room in search for Stefan who, as easily predicted, is standing at the far end of the counter, a big smile splitting up his face as he stares at Rebekah like he genuinely cannot believe she is real. Caroline catches his eyes and he grins up at her, waving with his hand so they join him by the bar. With a big, loud smile crawling up her face, Caroline takes Klaus's hand and walks him towards Stefan, and-

—who would have guessed?

Stefan is waiting for them with a handful of darts held tightly inside his fist. Wiggling his eyebrows amusedly, he takes a long gulp from his imported beer and holds the darts up to them. "Wanna play?"

Klaus snorts. "Hardly what I would call a fair game, mate."

In half a second Rebekah is standing beside them. Without warning, she takes the darts from Stefan and throws two of them at the same time, catching the dartboard right in the centre. She smiles all superior and pleased with herself as she suggests, "We'll team up."

Klaus snorts again. "You're drunk."

"And your girlfriend is a newborn baby," Rebekah shrugs, unaffected, her smile sharp as a razor. "That'll even out the competition, don't you think?"

Uggggggh.

Honestly. If Rebekah thinks it's so easy to bait her—she's got another thing coming.

With a barely audible sigh of annoyance, she moves quickly to grab a dart from Rebekah's half-open hand before she can anticipate Caroline's actions. In a breath, she scores a perfect twenty without effort, and makes sure to raise her eyebrows as high as she can when she casts a disinterested glance at Rebekah over her shoulder, not even bothering to turn on her heels to look at her properly. "You better be pouring rows of shots for all of us," she beams, all sweet and evil, "or I'll fall asleep watching you bite the dust."

Stefan clicks his tongue in a rather, _oh snap_ way; Klaus laughs, deep and rumbling and warmly affectionate. Caroline grins triumphantly at Rebekah.

—

**tbc.**

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**You guys so the The Originals promo? Gosh, less than a week before this entire fic is blown to pieces by canon. I'm terrified. I will have to make up for it by making a lot of graphics for the story and maybe even a trailer (check my tumblr if you're curious, theelliedoll). I will **_**try**_** to have next chapter (Mardi Gras Masquerade Ball, here we come…) before The Originals airs next Thursday and completely destroys my story. We'll see if real life behaves.**

**So… in the mean time, you liked this chapter? Drop me a line if you have any comments, and, as always, thank you so much for taking the time to read!**


	13. Chapter 13

**Here it is, guys! Mardi Gras at last ;) Thanks to all of you who are reading this story, or following it. And thank you especially to those of you who review or message me on tumblr– It means the world to me, and helps me keep motivated in spite of how terrified I am of how I feel when tomorrow's episode airs and this story goes completely AU.**

**Please, enjoy! But before you do, please be warned: this episode contains gore and some explicit violence.**

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**Chapter 13**

**.-.**

Klaus looks super dapper, extremely _extra_ hot in a simply, yet impossibly elegant black suit. Caroline, however—is determined to make him sweat it, just for fun; regardless of how big a fool he looked gaping at her when she appeared out the bathroom door in her gorgeous, glamorous crimson-and-black gothic wedding gown. So rather than gasping and ogling (she has better self-control than that), she raises an unimpressed eyebrow. "Couldn't even be bothered with a tux? I thought this was the social event of the season."

She distinctly remembers him in a dress coat, back then when she didn't even know him, except by the distant echoes of his legend; and he already fancied her, he claimed. The memory makes her roll her eyes, more at herself than at how _full of it_ Klaus's always been, because unmindfully, the fingers of her left hand wrap tightly around her right wrist, her warm skin itching with the ghost weight of a diamond bracelet.

He fixes his cufflinks distractedly. "We're supposed to _undermine_ Marcel, love. Not glorify his pompous ostentation like it's worthier than mere cheap, classless theatrics." He raises his eyes at her, smiling wickedly. "Haven't you seen Sophie's lovely costume?"

Caroline can't hold back the laughter that bubbles up her throat, her arm crossing over her stomach awkwardly, as if trying to protect the fine, silky-soft lace embroidery stretched over the crimson taffeta of her gown bodice. "I think your brother is still coughing up the shock."

"Sophie does him well," Klaus chuckles. "He needs to unwind a bit."

Rolling his shoulders, still smirking, Klaus turns on his feet to pick up his mask from the mahogany chest of drawers that stands majestically in front of the bed. He clips it surely behind his ears. It's a rather dark, twisted, hand-painted leather mask, all in hues black and red, but carefully trimmed with gold. It's a perfect match to her gown, and to her own Venetian mask of delicate black lace over bright, blood-coloured red silk, with sparkling gem decoration. It's beautiful. _We're beautiful, _she notices, as she adjusts the plastic headband of her mask over her head, staring at Klaus's reflection on the mirror. He's standing right behind her, seemingly mesmerized by the sight of her all dolled up like a vampire queen—ready to take the haunted city of New Orleans by storm.

Klaus looks hot, but hardly a king. Caroline smiles, apprehensive because even her toes are shaking. "You don't look much like a vampire."

The devilish mask is a nice touch, but, you know, if anything, it makes him look less dangerous than usual. More of a joke demon than the real, deadly monster that his natural angelic features usually hide and reveal uncannily at the same time.

He shrugs like he doesn't even care, his two pairs of fangs dropping casually as his eyes taint with a brush-stroke of yellow. "That's because I'm not a vampire, sweetheart."

She exhales, clenching her eyes shut like a fool who actually believes that hiding her head in the sand is going to make the world disappear around her. Immediately his arms close around her stomach, his rough hands a lot less careful with the delicate fabric of her gown that she's been since she put the dress on, and pressing himself against her, he shakes her gently, prompting her to open her eyes so that he can catch her gaze again. Knowing as she does that trying to resist him is way beyond pointless, she complies, breathing out slowly as she opens her eyes and lets them sink into the blue-again depth of his stare. She tries to feign indifference, holding back the urge to ball her fists and stomp her foot. "It's a nice suit," she half smiles, sighing. "Pity's gonna end up torn into shreds before the night is over."

His lips curl deliciously, but it's all fake. "Is that a promise, sweetheart?"

She stops holding back. Her fists ball on her hips, and she stomps her foot. Right on top of his.

He barely even reacts. His smile grows softer, more genuine. His hands settle gently on her hips, pulling slightly. She wants to cry and she wants to run but, instead, she lets another kind of impulse overtake her. A kinder one. She tilts her weight on her heels, allowing herself to fall backwards against his chest. Her words slip out shakily, a barely audible whisper. "You really have to—?"

His fingers grip her tighter—the only sign that disturbs the imperturbability of his steel-hard features as he locks his masked, yet unmistakable deep blue eyes right on hers. "It's the only way I con control them on a full moon, Caroline." His lips graze her ear; his hot breath brushes over her cheek, and she shivers. "I promise, nothing will happen to you."

She nods, but immediately shakes her head. "I'm not worried about _me_."

She should be. She hasn't forgotten Elijah's words, w_e make it obvious that Caroline is expendable, and you're only worried about your hybrid. If Marcel doesn't fall for it, and takes Caroline, we let him take her._ Letting Marcel take her, if he tries to—that's not a tragic eventuality. It's part of Elijah's plan. Marcel's war is against Klaus. The less he knows about Caroline, the safer they will all be. It's _safe_, Sophie promised her a thousand times while the four of them got ready for the Ball, zipping each other's gowns—or tacky scandalous costume, in the case of Sophie—and doing each other's hair. Bonnie and Sophie cast the spell yesterday and it all went well, but Caroline knows _all_ about the best laid plans, and, what would you guess? They _always_ fail.

And still, she isn't lying.

She isn't worried about herself. Klaus will be a lot more vulnerable in wolf shape.

"Nothing will happen to _anyone_, love." One of his hands slips from her hip to dig something out of his pocket, and an electrifying shiver rushes up her spine when his warm fingers press the cold gems against the white expanse of her naked shoulders. It's a choker, carved with glistening stones of an intense, deep crimson, woven with irregularly shaped, dark-purple-almost-back beads. "This pretty necklace will keep you safe."

She only notices the unfamiliar ring he's wearing when he drapes his fingers over her collarbone, tenderly massaging the flesh as if to help her relax. Which, of course, doesn't work at all.

"What is it?" She watches him follow her gaze from the necklace he just locked around her neck, to the ring on his finger, and back to her eyes again.

"Magic," he whispers, low, almost seductively into her ear as he begins to pull away. "Ancient rubies and mystical black amethysts. Sophie likes to use stones to bind her spells to the stoic, millenary forces of nature."

Caroline swallows, folding her hands together to keep them from shaking too violently. "Why do you need one?"

He's already walking out of the room when he answers, "It's a binding spell. We need to be all connected."

Caroline sighs, casting one lengthily, resigned look at her beautiful gown, the smooth, slippery cloth sparking like diamonds beneath the reflecting lights from the crystal lamp that hangs over the bed. She can't run in this gown, she knows. She can barely follow Klaus down the grandiose marble staircase of his mansion, she realizes, as he urges her to please hurry up, everyone's waiting in the limo already, and they're a little _lot_ more than fashionably late, definitely more than enough to get across their message of absolute disrespect towards the host.

The ride from the Mikaelsons' uptown mansion to the Varieties Theatre on the Mississippi bank passes in a blink.

Maybe it's Caroline's nervousness, and the sense of dread that overwhelms her, more overbearing the closer they get to their destination. Or perhaps it's just the talk. Sophie's vehement excuses about her obvious violation of the gala's dress code, claiming that the more people look at her, the longer it'll take them to notice she'll be sitting right beside a Bennett's witch. Elijah's reassurance that Caroline doesn't need to worry, no harm will come to her. Klaus's instructions to Tyler about following his lead, if the time comes to turn and hunt and devour.

Caroline curls the tip of her finger around the dark, twisted, beautiful choker around her neck, and turns her eyes to Bonnie. She wears no rubies, no amethysts; and neither does Sophie. The witches protect themselves. But _oh_, Bonnie's mask is so sumptuously gorgeous! It makes for a nice distraction, so Caroline holds her hand tightly, and focuses on examining every delicate detail of the golden, glittery, deliciously elaborate mask. It's truly elegant, made from laser cut metal with a gold finish and adorned with clear crystals, and attached to a matted white traditional mask, with a gold base, and white and gold swirls. It's by far the most luxurious mask of them all, a perfect balance to her simple sand gold ancient-looking Renaissance wedding dress, and a perfect token of Bonnie's dignity, power and status over the supernatural magma gathered together for the Mardi Gras Masquerade Ball of Marcel's Krewe. Bonnie will outshine them all, but isn't that the plan?

Rebekah is wearing a classy, beautiful black mask with hand-painted black swirl designs and traditional black satin ties; it's dark and delicate like the whole of her pitch-black outfit, the monochrome only broken by the set of interwoven black and crimson stones tied around her wrist. The whole outfit is a rather intense, striking contrast to the glowing, long blond curls cascading down her back and, as far as Caroline can remember, Rebekah has never looked more elegant, or more beautiful. Sophie, on the other hand, completes her obnoxious costume with a cheap, fuchsia lace mask. It's a crude, bawdy Mardi Gras costume, perfectly fitted for a night of debauchery in the narrow streets of the Quarter, but hardly suitable for a grand night of fine dining, refined spectacles, and tireless, incessant waltzing.

Or so Caroline imagines a Masquerade Ball is supposed to be, even if only held as an excuse for a secret elitist society to celebrate themselves and their overinflated egos.

Of course, though—

—the spectacles awaiting them prove to be anything but refined.

Their little party of eight arrives at the theatre just in time for the show.

A tall, beautiful hostess shows them to their table. She's killing a tight, blood-coloured dress, adorned with plastic bats and accessorized with an unapologetic vampire face, fangs dropped and eyes bloodshot. Caroline catches' Bonnie's expression of disgust right before they take their seats around the table, and out of sheer nervousness, she giggles when she watches the vamp hostess devouring both, Tyler and Stefan, with her back, hungry eyes. They both look rather dashing, to be quite honest, with their stunning silver and black Venetian half masks, and hey, it's a wonderful ice-breaker, to cut off the tension, watching Rebekah's face transforming, hands fisted as she hisses to the help, "Do you have the slightest idea of who I am and what I can do to you, you cheap floozy?"

Klaus grabs her by the arm before Rebekah can start the _real_ party too soon, leading her to sit by his side as he sighs, exasperated. "Let's enjoy this gleeful celebration in peace, shall we, Rebekah?"

Sprawling her napkin over her lap, Sophie mock-coughs, to conceal her biting remark: "Before the shit hits the fan."

Elijah's clenching his jaw so tight that for a second Caroline's worried it's going to pop out of place. "Sophie, _please_," he chastises, muttering under his breath, "I know you have every reason to disrespect Marcel, but we're at the table."

Rebuked by the stern dignity of Elijah's reprimand, their whole table falls silent—

—just in time to notice the heavy, ancient, red-velvet curtain rising over the stage.

The Varieties Theatre is old, genuine and majestic. Nothing else will do, Caroline figures, for the crowning ceremony of the King of Mardi Gras. The _official _King of New Orleans for at least, another year. Caroline knows. She's googled it.

As loud, rising music surges from bellow the proscenium, a string orchestra playing from somewhere underneath their feet, Caroline allows her eyes to roam the auditorium, breathing deeply to get herself to calm down and overcome the sense of dread that assaults her. It's a beautiful place—one of the most beautiful places Caroline has ever seen in her life, if not the _most_ beautiful. The seats in the stalls have been all dismantled to accommodate twenty tables for eight, she counts, all of them displayed in a wide semi-circle so the diners are surrounding the glamorous, lit-by-gigantic-chandeliers dance floor.

But the lights go out as soon as the rising music explodes, climaxing with a bang, and the auditorium falls dead, all guests spooked out of their wits; so silent. Not even a hint of a breath or a heartbeat reverberating in the room, until—

—a thousand candles lit up on the stage, at the same time, as if by magic.

By magic, surely. But whose? It's probably just a magician's trick.

Caroline doesn't have time to ponder the question, before the shadows come crawling onto the stage. Girls. Naked girls. At least twenty of them. They aren't wearing masks. They're _completely _naked… and they're bleeding. There are gashes, wounds, scratches all over their skin. It's no trick—no make-up. The girls have been hurt, they're in pain; but the reality of their misery is only perceptible for the monsters in the room, Caroline knows. She's seen _Interview with the Vampire_, and Klaus has told her about the VIP humans who are always invited to this kind of party. The mayor and his aldermen. Bankers and executives. Those who believe conduct the life of New Orleans, but have in fact been mind-wiped not to see, or not to care, or not to remember.

They get to enjoy the dark, twisted, sick show of gore and horror, but they do not—they _cannot_—smell the blood.

Caroline can't even process—

The girls, bleeding out, crawl mindlessly across the stage, and for a while, nothing else happens.

But as the minutes go by, as the diners begin to grow more comfortable with the morbid scene unfolding before their eyes, a few low, cruel laughs break out from the audience. Like it's black humour. Dark comedy. A deliciously enjoyable show. And, of course—soon enough the occasional, isolated laughs begin to morph into hisses, grunts of hunger; and Caroline realizes, maybe _that_ is the show. Dozens of vicious, aroused vampires will jump from their tables, dressed to the nines, to devour the girls on the stage. They will fight for them like hyenas; they will tear their limbs apart.

_Let the good times roll._

But—thank _God_, Caroline surprises herself by thinking—a new group of shadows suddenly take over the stage. Faceless, cloaked figures that hid and crouch and pounce, two for each girl they grab and restrain forcefully while two women appear walking from the background, dressed up as medieval handmaids but carrying with them, with supernatural strength, an Old World bathtub, seemingly carved from a single block of pearlescent onyx, and beautifully crossed with rust-coloured veins. They set it right on the proscenium, where not one guest will miss one detail, and soon enough, they step aside so one by one, the cloaked shadows drag each girl towards the tub, hold them up so the audience can see, how they carefully slit the girls' throats open with a pointy thimble, and let them bleed out, every last drop left, into the ancient onyx bathtub. Each single girl. Until the blood begins to overflow.

The wave of nausea that crashes over her throat is so powerful, that there is nothing Caroline can do to hold it back. She retches, horrified by the gore, the incommensurable cruelty of the massacre performed live. Disgusted by herself, too, because the overpowering scent of _so much _blood is making it excruciatingly painful to restrain herself, and not let the beast inside take over her senses. The warm pressure of Klaus's hand pressed secretly against the small of her back makes it a tiny bit better, and so does—surprisingly—Rebekah's dismissive joke when she whispers, barely audibly, "I suppose that's why the show precedes the dinner."

Smiling thankfully at her, Caroline tears her eyes from the spot she's hidden them right in the middle of her fancy porcelain plate, and unexpectedly catches Rebekah holding Stefan's hand right over his napkin, on the table, where everyone can see. It downs on Caroline that Stefan cannot be having the time of his life either, with all the blood being poured so freely, but his expression remains strangely calm. He even offers a small smile at Caroline as he laces his fingers with Rebekah's. Caroline returns his smile, grateful that at least the reflecting light from the candlelit stage allows her to see her friends' familiar features. She doesn't dare twist her head to look properly at Klaus, afraid that just one look under the current circumstances will reveal too much, but right before the underground orchestra begins playing again, Caroline catches Bonnie's eye. She's expecting horror and disgust, perhaps even anger, wrath. But Bonnie looks indifferent, unaffected. The dead look in her eyes makes Caroline's stomach lurch violently, this time from entirely different reasons.

But there's a new figure on the stage, a woman clad in red silk wearing a delicate red lace eye mask, and as much as Caroline doesn't want to look, wants instead to smile at Bonnie and nod reassuringly and let her know with just her eyes that it's okay, Bonnie is okay, and Caroline is okay, and they are _all_ okay—

—the pull from the beautiful, black-haired woman that comes to stand before the bathtub is irresistible. Especially when Caroline hears Klaus whisper, soft and gentle as if he knows her, "Erzsébet."

The woman does nothing but stand there motionless for at least five minutes, before she starts to peel off her dress, one strip of crimson silk after the other, until she's standing naked, white flesh untainted except for the gush of red that reflects from the overflowing tub, the blood sparkling beneath the candlelight. At first, she doesn't say a word. Then her mouth opens wide, as if in a silent scream, but no words come out. At last, she declaims, her voice deep and loud, but breaking, "Their blood is myself."

Unsurprisingly, her senseless, but terribly evocative words, are followed by a rather predicable action. She steps into the bathtub with lazy gracefulness and, sitting down slowly, she lets herself slide down, sink bellow the surface of the newly-drained blood and disappear. Blood spills out in bucketfuls, and for at least five minutes nothing happens. The woman—a vampire—drowns herself in the girls' blood, and the audience watches attentively, listens to the splattering noises of the blood that spills out, and the gulping sounds of it pouring down the woman's throat, relentlessly until it floods her lungs.

Caroline is about to be sick, for real this time, when the woman—_Erzsébet_, Klaus called her, and so it said on the invitation to the Ball—surges from bellow the surface like a terrible, blood-soaked mermaid. She rises over the edge of the tub as if ready to fly away, but just as it seems that she _will_ fly away, off the stage and over the dance floor and the guests' tables—a man appears out of thin air right behind her. One arm wraps around the woman's bloodied stomach, and her eyes shot open, desperate. She tries to squirm away, but it's pointless. The iron grip of the arm holding her down is too strong. There is nothing she can do to save herself, when the man lifts his other arm over her shoulder, the stake he holds sinking right into the woman's heart in one violent, powerful swing.

Caroline gasps, as does most of the audience, when the woman falls face-first over the edge of the bathtub, her black hair falling over her head like a velvet curtain while the lower half of her body remains inside the tub, slowly, but inexorably, greying like ashes. Grabbing her forcefully by the hair, the man pulls her back, exposes her nakedness and the stake protruding out of her chest, so they all can see. He lefts her there, in the tub, but settles back her corpse so the tableau is nicely completed.

It's a wonderful, horrible twist to your typical Mardi Gras tableau vivant. It's a tableau _mort_. The dead, drained bodies of the girls are piled up at both sides of the bathtub and, inside, bathing in their blood, the staked vampire that the master of ceremonies sacrificed for the entertainment of his guests.

He never takes off his mask, and he knows how to move to avoid the candlelight, but as soon as he stands in front of his creation, tall and dark and magnificent—as soon as he proclaims, voice warm and soft as velvet, "Welcome, my friends, to the Mardi Gras Masquerade Ball of the Brother of Death,"—

—there's no hint of a doubt in anyone who's watching, that the man on the stage, is no other than the Captain of the Krewe. The true Mardi Gras Rex.

Marcel.

He vanishes as swiftly as he appeared, but the cloaked shadows remain on stage, surrounding the dead women as a true tableau vivant containing, representing in performance, the tableau mort that just unfolded before their eyes.

The lights are turned back on immediately, reflecting from a million angles as it hits the hundreds, maybe thousands of mirrors set up so the scene—the tablaue, the dining, eventually the dancing—is multiplied to infinity, so it never ends. The horror of the show fades bluntly with a collective gasp, as the white lights burn the guests' sight for a second. And just like that, the soft murmur of people beginning to talk among themselves grows as loud as it would be in any other party. Guests turn to their fellow diners, at last, casually conversing as an army of waiters suddenly enter the room, the dinner entrées ready on the trays they carry.

Of the people sitting with Caroline, Sophie is unsurprisingly the first one to talk. "Well, that was dull," she comments, her shoulders rolling with indifference as she leans back so a waiter can place the first course in front of her, "I was expecting something a little bit more creative than an Anne Rice rip-off."

Klaus replies to her in French, "Comme le théâtre du Grand-Guignol,"—

—but everyone ignores his douchey pretentiousness in favour of Sophie's snarky indifference. Rebekah chuckles even though there's no way she even knows who Anne Rice is, and, after a couple of seconds, Stefan and Tyler follow her.

Laugh in the face of fear, right?

Caroline frowns, because well, it's not like she doesn't appreciate Sophie's guts in really, caring so little about anything Marcel tries to pull out of his hat, but somehow, in spite of the horror just witnessed, Caroline can't help but worry that Marcel's little gory show was nothing but the warm-up for the real show he has prepared for them. She remembers Elijah's words. The Mardi Gras celebrations of Marcel's krewe revolve around the ritual of killing the king, but it is never their own king that they kill. The show was evil, and disgusting, and by far one of the most horrifying experiences Caroline has ever lived—

—but it's a joke, it _really_ is a joke, like Sophie makes it to be, if compared with the thought that the theatre of death is but the opening act of a tragedy that will end with Klaus in a box of concrete. Or whatever other way Marcel's witches have found out, to be rid of him, without extinguishing his bloodline. Or perhaps—

—no, _it can't be_—

—but what if the witches have found a way to free themselves?

If Klaus dies, Marcel dies with him.

But _no_—

—_it can't be_—

—only the white-oak stage can kill Klaus.

"Caroline, sweetheart? Aren't you going to eat anything? The scrimp cocktail is delicious." She turns to the velvety caress of Klaus's voice, shaking her head and stretching her eyelids wide open so the tears brimming in her eyes don't fall down her cheeks. The plastered smile on his face crumbles down, and he narrows his eyes at her meaningfully, his jaw set tight. "Eat your dinner, love. Then, we'll dance, and then we'll _leave_. I'll take you to the bayou to see the fireworks."

_It's okay_, he's really saying. _You're okay. The witches' spell will protect all of us from Marcel's vampires; his witches aren't even here. My wolves are waiting_.

Or at least, that's what Caroline chooses to believe he's saying, as she compels herself to trust his unsaid words. So she nods, and draws a painful smile on her lips. "I'd love that," she says.

Oh, how much she'd love that.

But for the time being, she has to content herself with stuffing her face with the most delicious seafood she has ever tasted, gulping down the white wine that doesn't ever stop being served by their personal and very devoted waiter. She drinks wine first, Champagne later, like it's water and she's dying of thirst in the middle of the desert, hoping against hope that it will take the edge off. That it'll soothe her fizzing nerves, her boiling-just-beneath-the-surface panic, and the insistent hunger pulling at her gums since she first smelled the scent of fresh human blood that still pervades every corner of the auditorium, even as the gallons bled-out of the girls cool down as the evening runs by, and dry like crimson-coloured paint all over the stage.

Occasionally, Caroline's eyes dart to the stage on their own accord. The tableau remains frozen all throughout dinner, the dead bodies of the drained girls and _Erzsébet_ simply forgotten onstage like the dead things they are. They're not even leftovers for the vampires that killed them. There's not one drop of blood left in them. They're no different from the empty carcasses of the crawfishes in the bisque served right after the shrimp cocktail.

Disgusted, horrified, _freaking hungry_, all Caroline can do to make it through dinner is focus her attention on her fellow diners. Tyler alternates from looking bored out of his mind to basically, and _visibly_, itching with the edge of hysteria that, hybrid or not, accompanies him every full moon, if only for the sake of remembering the days not-that-long gone of pain and fear and a thousand broken bones. Stefan is eating calmly along with Rebekah and Bonnie, who spends most of her times looking down and ignoring the looks of apprehension that, in time, every vampire in the room casts in her direction. Sophie smiles and drinks and chats like she has nothing to be afraid of, in spite of who she is and where she's at. Elijah, by her side, looks as if he's been chewing on sour grapes all dinner long, like he genuinely cannot enjoy the delicious food after such a mess has been made only a few yards off. Like, how are they supposed to eat in front of two dozens dead bodies, give or take? It's unsanitary.

It _really_ is unsanitary.

It's fucked-up, and the opposite of refined or high-class, and in the middle of Marcel's barbarism and the raucous enjoyment of his vampire army, and of the disgusting, twisted, _cruel_ human elite of New Orleans, the only person in their table who looks perfectly composed and relaxed is Klaus. He's actually in full story-teller mode, sucking on his scallops like he's sitting around his own dinner table, back at home.

"I knew good old Erzsébet," he reminisces with a sweet, tender, actually _genuine_ smile, sipping carelessly from his wine. "She was lovely. My brother Kol was really fond of her… for a while."

Caroline nods, tightening her lips and looking away from him, her eyes running into Stefan for just a second before she finds herself avoiding his gaze, too. His brother Kol. Whose dead, burnt body she covered with a plastic bag after spitting out some bitchy, insensitive retort because, well, she was _so_ angry at Klaus that day, you see. He murdered Tyler's mother. Right when Caroline had started thinking that well, maybe he wasn't that bad, you know?

Rebekah groans loudly. "She was utterly _disgusting_, and smelled like burning horsemeat. Kol's taste in women was always such a freaking disgrace. For once he doesn't go after a witch and he picks—"

Sophie interrupts the fraternal trip down memory line by sticking her nose where, you could say, it doesn't really belong. Perfectly in character for her to do, as she leans her elbows on the table and asks, casually, "Who's Kol?"

The silence that falls upon their table is heavy as a headstone—the headstone that Kol didn't ever get, probably. It's awkward and uncomfortable, and there's little anyone can say, because Caroline is no one, and Stefan is a Salvatore but also no one but an old friend of Rebekah, and Tyler just a hybrid Klaus made when he was raiding the country from Florida up to Tennessee, hunting down every pack of werewolves that he heard the wind whispering about. And Elijah hasn't told Sophie about Kol, which is a completely new level of awkward and damn _it_, Klaus looks sad and angry all of a sudden, and this conversation is the last thing they need tonight—

Elijah is the one to break the silence, as expected rising to the occasion with perfectly composed dignity. "Kol was my youngest brother," he whispers, not a trace of resentment in his voice as he addresses Sophie like they are the only two people in the room, and this is in fact a private, intimate conversation. "A hunter killed him. One of the Five."

Well, that's one way of putting it.

One way that works, because Sophie nods and doesn't ask any more questions. The Five, she knows what those are. Deadly hunters. If anyone can kill an original—

—oh, the irony.

The moment of tension passed, Klaus starts talking again, like it wasn't his big mouth what caused the tension to begin with. It's like, sometimes, he really truly simply _cannot_ keep his mouth shut.

"So, as I was saying, I knew Erzsébet. She was deliciously cruel, and she taught Kol a few clever tricks, begged him passionately to turn her but, you see, my baby brother was always a bit of a free spirit, sort of fickle in his affections," he grins, like he's fond of the memories his tale is recalling. "So he tired of her soon enough. Had the poor woman exposed, judged and sentenced to immurement."

Stefan actually chuckles, "Poor woman? She was a psychopath."

"Wait, wait," Sophie interrupts, again. "According to Marcel's little play, she was a vampire and," she pauses, for effect, "she was killed with a stake like, you know, you blood suckers are supposed to be killed."

Klaus rolls his eyes exaggeratedly. "Marcel can be a bit of an uncultured swine, sometimes. You can't always expect him to be familiar with the darkest page-turns of Eastern European History."

Sophie smiles merrily at that. "Well, most people do believe she was a vampire."

This time, it's Tyler who interrupts, frowning. "You guys have lost me. Who're you talking about? Creepy naked bloody chick?" He shrugs. "And here I was thinking Marcel just liked blood and boobs, and turns out, she was a friend of the family."

"Nope," Sophie shakes her head and lowers her chin, muttering towards her now empty plate. "Marcel doesn't like boobs all that much, actually—"

"He's our host, Sophie. Please—"

"Your brother just called him a swine—"

"Niklaus has no manners, but I would expect better of you—"

Sophie and Elijah bickering is quite the cute scene, but Caroline would rather have Tyler's question answered because really, _who are they talking about_? And, does Caroline even want to know?

Much to her surprise, it's finally Bonnie who provides an answer. Her voice comes out strong, but calm and reposed. She addresses Tyler directly, "I believe they're talking of Countess Elizabeth Báthory. That's who the tableau was based on according to the invitation, right? They're just saying her name in Hungarian because—"

"Because my family actually comes from Eastern Europe, didn't you know, Bonnie?" Klaus cuts her off, smiling all fake and warm.

Bonnie returns his fake sweet smile, all sass. "Like Dracula."

Klaus's smile hardens, his features falling into a cold, stony, statue-like expression. "Please, don't mention old Vlad to me." Breathing in deeply, he turns his eyes to Caroline and forces the smile back to his mouth. "Over the centuries, we've all found our way back to our parents' home more than once. This particular time in Hungary, at the end of the sixteenth century… It was a very dark time, love, and I was at a very dark place in my life. Erzsébet helped keeping me distracted for a while."

Caroline doesn't really know what kind of in-character reaction Klaus is expecting from her, but there's little Caroline can do to suppress the snort that breaks out of her throat. She might have not known who Erzsébet was, but Elizabeth Bathóry she's heard about, and even if she hadn't, the little bloody farce onstage would have informed her clearly enough. So she actually rolls her eyes at him, "Of course she did. I'm sure you two or, well, you _three_ had the loveliest blood baths together, didn't you?"

Klaus doesn't even turn a hair as he stands up gracefully, offering her his hand and winking, "Literally."

Seriously?

He wants her to dance with him after he just planted that image in her head. Drained girls like the actual, _real_, dead girls on the stage, bled out to their last drop so that Klaus could distract himself by taking baths in their blood. With Elizabeth Báthory. And Kol, too.

For a moment she feels tempted to accept the offer, let him lead her to the dance floor, and then puke all over his nice, simple, yet extraordinary expensive and elegant suit. But she manages to repress the urge, leaning back on her chest and crossing her arms over her chest. "We haven't eaten dessert yet."

There are already a few couples dancing and, actually, dessert should have already been served. Unless, that is, Marcel is making them anticipate it because he has a little surprise planned to accompany the announced Bananas Foster. And in that case, honestly, Caroline doesn't want dessert. She doesn't even want to see it. Can they go home already?

Klaus extended hand doesn't give up, and neither does his charming smile. "Come on, love. In case we have to leave early."

It's a warning. It's an unsaid warning and, regardless of how many images of dozens of innocent girls drained by Klaus for fun plague her thoughts, she has no choice but to obey his silent, gentle command. So she gives him her hand, and lets him take her to the centre of the dance floor.

As soon as his hand settles on the small of her back, keeping her pressed to him and beginning to sway them to the rhythm of the music, Caroline asks him, "What's going on?" She knows it's not safe; she knows better than to expect the honest answer that she _knows_ he cannot give her, so she quickly adds, "You're acting all weird tonight."

He isn't, and maybe that's the weird thing. He should be on edge. Marcel must be expecting him to be on edge, so if anyone's listening—

"Nothing's going on, sweetheart. I'm just sad the party will be over soon," he whispers into her ear, his lips pressed delicately to her cheek, right bellow the edge of her mask. "I will miss you when you're gone… tomorrow."

Fucking. Low. Blow.

She clenches her teeth and pretends she's too affected by the proximity of their goodbye, not freaking _furious_ that he's playing her like a fiddle, and uses that as an excuse to keep quiet and let him move her, oh, so gently across the dance floor, in perfect synchrony with the low hum of the soul-wrenching blues seeping from beneath the stage, where a jazz band apparently has replaced the string orchestra. Or maybe they've just switched instruments.

"What's your friend Tyler doing?" Klaus's voice pulls her back to the matter at hand: their plan to outlive the night. "You think he's having fun?"

To anyone listening, Klaus's interest lies solely on the hybrid. Caroline's friend. To Caroline, Klaus's asking about something else entirely.

She sighs, as if the thought of what she is about to say tore her heart apart. "I think he's really fallen for your friend, the wolf. I don't think he wants to come back to Virginia."

Klaus smirks, satisfied. Caroline can't see it, but she feels the added pressure of his cheek against hers when his lips curl. "You'll come and visit us, won't you, love?"

His whisper is so low, so deep and soft, that for a moment Caroline loses track of what's actually going on. For a moment she believes it. She's leaving tomorrow, and Tyler is staying. That's what she wanted, isn't she? If Tyler stays, if he becomes Klaus's hybrid lieutenant in his war against Marcel and his vampire army—then that means he is free from Klaus's compulsion. Caroline can go back to her own life, can come back occasionally, to visit them—

For a second she believes it.

For a second she confuses what's real and what's not.

For a second she believes she's _truly_ leaving, and for a second it doesn't matter. Nothing matters. Not the blood baths and the drained girls and whatever other inconceivable crimes Klaus committed five lifetimes ago. Because that was then, and this is _now_, Mardi Gras, the last day of the carnival, and Caroline doesn't want it to ever end.

For a second, she sees everything more clearly than she ever has.

For a second.

But then—

—the second rushes her by.

And the entire auditorium catches fire.

It all happens in less than a second.

The main act. The climax of Marcel's play.

She feels the heat before she sees the flames.

She smells the reek of burning vampire flesh and melting glass before she realizes, Klaus has fallen to the ground.

She follows him down without thinking, uncaring of the mass of people running over their heads, screaming, burning. _Fire can kill a vampire_, is the first thought that assaults her. _Run_, is the second. But the third one is the most terrifying—

_This isn't Marcel's play._

Marcel wouldn't gather all his army in a room and then set it on fire. But who would—?

_Witches_.

But Marcel's witches cannot practise; their magic has been stifled. They have the motives, but lack the means—

—"Caroline! Caroline!" —

—someone's calling out her name, but she barely hears it over the crackling noises of burning flesh, the screaming of the dying, the shouting of those who are trying uselessly to escape the flames that burn it all.

All but _them_.

The flames elude her, Caroline notices. The fire escapes from her as if _afraid_ she can freeze it down. It shocks her with a momentary shot of clarity and, pressing the icy cold rubies and amethysts against her collarbone, she suddenly understands. She's seen it too many times over the years to harbour any doubts in her heart.

_Bonnie_.

Fire was always her favourite weapon, long even before she know that, indeed—_fire can kill a vampire_.

—"Caroline! Caroline!" —

It's Klaus who's calling her. _Klaus_. He's kneeling right in front of her, his screams barely as loud as a contained whisper, his limbs contorting in pain as if he's turning, but why would he —? They're safe, it's _Bonnie_. The ring will protect him from the fire. Fire can't kill him anyway. He doesn't have to turn. He doesn't need to command his werewolves. They are safe—

—"Caroline! _Run_!" —

His eyes look lost. Terrified. So _human_. So impossibly _young_. Not a hint of yellow in them.

He isn't turning into a wolf.

Something else is happening to him. Something terrible. He's trying to reach out to her, but every time he tries to lift himself up, he collapses, a pained groan breaking out of his throat as his terrified eyes find hers, plead with her to please—

"Run…"

She doesn't even register what he's saying, doesn't even consider running. _No_, she shakes her head, crawling closer to him on her hands and knees, holding his face in her hands when his eyes fill with tears and he gasps, not a word coming out of his clotted throat as his eyes, mad with terror, still beg her to please, _run_.

_No, no, no_, she keeps shaking her head. They're safe. She doesn't need to run. She'll stay with him until he feels better. He _can't_ die—

"Klaus… Klaus, please—"

She feels a sharp twinge in her neck, a rush of heat shooting down her spine and—

—_oh_—

Klaus's wide, pained, horror-struck eyes are the last thing Caroline sees before the world turns black around her, and unconsciousness overcomes her, and she collapses onto the floor, unconsciousness overcoming her as the auditorium of the Varieties Theatres burns down to ashes.

—

**tbc.**

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**Disclaimer****: the connection between Elizabeth Báthory (1560 –1614) and vampire folklore is rather weak in historical, anthropological and cultural terms. However, it is extremely insistent in popular culture, so that is that. Same can be said about Dracula and Vlad the Impaler (1431–1476), or old Vlad, as Klaus calls him. The entire point of this story is to take Caroline to a place—literally (New Orleans) and metaphorically (Klaus)—where she has no option but to come to terms with what she is, and what she became after she died. So I really wanted to bring the story to a (first) climax in as Masquerade, the theme of which was actually, well, **_**vampirism**_**.**

**So… **

**I made it! I wrote the Masquerade Ball chapter before _The Originals_ pilot! ;) What do you think? You liked it? I'm very excited about the next couple of chapters—even though the next one won't be very long, I believe—so regardless of what happens tomorrow, I will keep on updating. But, you know, I might get a bit distracted by making graphics and stuff, to illustrate this story. Check out my blog, theelliedoll. I already posted pics of Caroline's, Klaus's, Sophie's, Rebekah's and Bonnie's masks, along with Solijah graphics and a fanvideo inspired by this story.**

**And that is all, for the time being. Enjoy _The Originals_, and please come back to this story after canon completely shatters my own version of New Orleans! **


	14. Chapter 14

**Hello, guys! First of all, thank you so much for your kind feedback about last chapter, which was, well, a very important chapter ;) Also – thank you, forever, for all the comments you've dropped me here and on tumblr, about this story, after the pilot of The Originals. When I saw the episode, for a moment I really was afraid that my anger and disappointed with the new show wouldn't let me finish this story, but all your kind words of encouragement have really helped, and now I'm more determined than ever to get on with writing everything that's left of this story, which is still quite a bit.**

**Said that, I leave you with the new chapter. Please bare in mind that, every climax needs to be followed by an anticlimax, so we're back to slightly more slow-paced chapters for a bit ;) Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter 14**

**.-.**

Her limbs are heavy. Her head is pounding. The dead blood rushing through her veins is burning her inside out. She feels like a million bugs are crawling right beneath her skin, and, only her hands moving, she scratches herself raw into awakening. She groans out loud as she feels her throat clenching painfully when she tries to breathe in. _Vervain_. It's still being washed off her veins, one excruciating drop at a time. She has to force herself to crack her eyes open, flinching, yet almost smiling in relief when she notices the dimmed down lights of the room.

Where is she?

The first thing she notices is the soft mattress beneath her. She's lying on a bed, in a darkened room. Soldiering on through the pain inflicted by the last vestiges of the vervain scorching out her veins, she tries sitting up, biting her bottom lip to keep herself from groaning again, uttering any noise that might give her away—

"Careful," a woman voice stops her slow moments and, before Caroline can turn around to look at whoever is talking talking, the drapes over the window are closed off entirely, so not a ray of sunlight can seep in. A table lamp is switched on by her head, and Caroline flinches again, shutting her eyes; confused, and scared.

Where is she? Who is—?

Her thoughts come to a violent stop when the scent of blood assaults her frail senses, and immediately she feels invigorated. She's too weak after the vervain, too hungry. Her fangs drop without her even noticing, the veins around her eyes throbbing intensely when she hisses, her jaw falling open as, fuelled by her desperate hunger, she flashes off the bed without stopping to think, to look, to see—

She's expecting anything but a bleeding arm extended her way, offering up an open wound for her to quench her thirst. For just a second, the pull of the hunger, the urge to regain her strength so she can run, fight, save herself—it's irrisistible. Her survival instincts kick in, and just a second is more than enough. Before she can think of what she'd doing, she grabs the faceless arm, urgently pressing her mouth to the bleeding gash. Her fangs pierce the soft skin without effort, and she drinks, avidly, carelessly gulping down mouthfuls of fresh warm blood until she feels a slight tug in the arm she's holding against her mouth, trying faintly to pull away. Caroline refuses to let go, though. The rush is too good. It's _vital_. The receding pain caused by the vervain flowing in her blood is but a fading echo the second fresh _human_ blood starts pouring down her throat. Her head stops pounding. She feels strong again. She is fully awake. She is clearheaded. She is remembering—

"Klaus…"

She pulls away with a gasp, her heightened senses assaulted by the imprinted sight of Klaus contorted in the ground, grunting in pain, incapable of uttering a sound, incapable of turning, incapable of running… Her hand closes around her throat to hold inside the silent scream that threatens to break out of her bloodstained lips when she lifts her head to see the woman she just fed on.

The woman she _almost_ killed.

Camille.

She looks so scared, so pale. She staggers back, holding onto the edge of the bed not to fall down and, immediately, without even thinking about it, Caroline bites her own wrist, offering it to Camille so that she can drink. _Quid pro quo_, she thinks sadly, as tears begin streaming silently down her cheeks. She can't believe that she just—

She lets Camille drink from her, watches her recover her natural colour, and smile heartbreakingly back at Caroline as she sits on the desk right bellow the closed window. She doesn't look weirded out or disgusted by the taste of blood. This isn't the first time a vampire has needed to feed her, and the realization hits her violently, sending a wave of nausea up Caroline's throat. She has to sit, too, and so she mirrors Camille's gesture, sitting on the bed, grimacing as her beautiful Masquerade gown crackles around her. It sounds just like burning wood, and she has to bite her tongue, force herself to focus.

She forces herself to fix her misty gaze on Camille and, when she does, she follows Camille's gaze when it darts to Caroline's slightly-shaking hands. She gasps when she notices: her daylight right is gone. She's trapped. As a surge of rage rushes through her, the tears immediately stop falling. She will not cry like a baby. That will help no one, and she is _not_ weak. She will figure out what's happened, and she will fix it. She is a fixer. She _is_ a fixer.

But, _where is Klaus_?

"It was the ring," Camille breathes at last, the words so low that Caroline has to strain her ears to hear her. "He said it was the ring that gave you away. If you're a day-walker, that means you're important. That means you're not who you say you are."

A young unimportant vampire. A college girl on vacation.

The ring gave her away. Why didn't they think of that? Most vampires in New Orleans don't wear daylight rings. Only Marcel's men of confidence. But—

Caroline frowns, not able to string the violent mess of rushing thoughts in her head into anything coherent. They're in a room. She scans it quickly and immediately realizes, they're in a _hotel _room. Marcel's _hotel_, more than likely, though it's not like she can look out the window and be sure. So instead she swallows down the terror shaking in her clenched, ring-less fingers, and finally asks Camille. "What happened? Marcel brought me here?"

The questions speeding madly through her head are different, though. They are too many. _Where is Klaus? Where is Bonnie? Where are my friends? Tyler, Stefan, Sophie… What happened? Did Marcel survive the fire? Where is Klaus? The ring gave you away. Where is Klaus? Where is Klaus? Is Klaus okay? Where is Klaus?_

Camille shakes her head briskly, her shoulders pulled tight. "No," she whispers. "Diego brought you here. I don't know what happened. I woke up here, just like you, hours ago. Before Diego came with you." Her eyes falls down, twitching as she glues them to the still-bleeding wound in her wrist. "I don't know what happened."

Caroline's eyes widen, her fear rising until she feels it burning in her lungs, almost paralyzing her feeble, spinning thoughts. Why is Camille still bleeding after she's drunk Caroline's blood? Since when has she been bleeding? Caroline bites her lip again, this time hard enough to draw blood. Her voice comes out low, anguished, but sharp as a blade. "What the _fuck_ is happening?"

She's still alive, and it's morning already. That means Klaus is alive too. But where? What happened to him after Bonnie set the theatre on fire?

Camille shakes her head again. "I don't know," she repeats. She sounds extremely calm, even though her eyes look about to pop out of their sockets, and she seems unable to cast them off her wound. "It's magic. They had witches with them, hidden somewhere in the theatre, not in the ball room. I don't know what they did. Diego said Marcel wanted to make sure you fed but, that was _before_. Now I don't know. I'm supposed to feed you. I'm supposed to help you. I'm supposed to keep you alive—"

"Before _what_? What are you saying?"

It's like Camille is having a perfectly calm, perfectly composed attack of hysteria. A perfectly calm, perfectly composed attack of hysteria, under the influence of compulsion. _Don't freak out. Feed the girl your blood. It will keep coming_. The wound is barely a scratch; she won't bleed out; but magically, the blood will go on flowing, enticing Caroline, tempting her to drink. Get stronger. Maybe lose control again. Kill the precious bartender.

But why would Marcel want Camille to die? Didn't he care about her?

"Before Diego had to leave, because Marcel is hurt, I think. That's what he said," Camille answers, leaning on the backrest of her chair, her eyes getting lost in the thick curtains draped over the window as if she could actually see past them. She sounds calm, relaxed, in spite of the nonsensical nature of what she is actually saying. "Before the wolves came and killed all the vampires. Diego was already gone—"

Frowning in confusion, Caroline interrupts her. "Wolves? What wolves?" She's gripping the bed covers so forcefully that she can feel the cloth tearing to shreds beneath the pressure of her iron fingers. Klaus couldn't turn. But maybe Tyler… She suddenly notices another missing piece in the jigsaw forming in her head. "And who the hell is Diego?"

Camille's eyes shot upwards, and her face breaks into a small smile. "Diego is one of the vampires in Marcel's inner circle. He loves Marcel, truly, and Marcel loves him, I think. They protect each other." Her lips twitch, almost wistfully, but the soft expression in her eyes clouds in a second, and she pulls her brow. "Your friend, Tyler. He's a wolf too, right?"

Caroline swallows, stretching the full skirt of her gown over her thighs. She breathes in, attempting to compose herself. They're having two parallel conversations at the same time. One is about the wolves. The other is about Diego. Two timelines. After the events of last night, and Camille's clearly confused state of mind, this is as clear as it's going to get, so Caroline decides to take it one step at a time, morbidly grateful for the blood that, at least, has managed to clear her thoughts and make her alert enough to guide Camille through a half senseless conversation.

So she nods, reconstructing the pieces of the puzzle she already knows. _Before the wolves came and killed the vampires_. Diego, someone who is very close to Marcel, a partner, brought her here, compelled Camille to feed her after ensuring that she wouldn't stop bleeding—just in case Caroline was strong enough to try and resist the bloodlust. Then, he left, because Marcel was hurt. _Before the wolves came and killed the vampires_.

The wolves came. Killed the vampires.

Caroline nods again. "Yeah, Tyler's a hybrid."

The other last remaining hybrid.

Camille turns her face away, once against losing her gaze in the thick velvet of the drapes. She sighs, "Yes, I think it was him leading the others. It was almost sunrise, when the wolves came. But so dark still. They appeared just out of the fog, without warning. They were so many—at least twenty of them. Diego only left three vampires behind, to watch the hotel after all the guests had to leave. There was nothing the vampire could do—not even escape. The wolves came out of nowhere. It was so dark." Her voice trails away, and Caroline suspects that, perhaps, Camille isn't even aware that she's talking out loud. That, perhaps, she has totally forgotten that there's someone in the room with her. That she can't leave the deserted hotel because she has been compelled to stay and make sure that Caroline is well-fed. But she goes on talking, concluding her tale: "The wolves tore them apart until there was nothing left."

Caroline doesn't say anything. She doesn't know what to say. Her thoughts are still going a mile a second, regardless of how desperately she tries to rein them in. Klaus needed to transform to be able to command the wolves, but he hadn't been able to. In his absence, it had been Tyler who did as Klaus had instructed him to do. Turn. Find the wolves. Prey. Hunt. Devour. Had Klaus's pack followed Tyler in the absence of their alpha? Tyler was a stranger to Klaus's werewolves. Except, of course… _Hayley_.

Camille's voice interrupts the dangerous trail of Caroline's thoughts when she speaks again, her eyes still lost somewhere far away beyond the window drapes that block out the sunlight. "You can still smell the fire."

It's true. Caroline doesn't even need to inhale. The window must be open at the other side of the closed curtains, because if she concentres, she can smell the ashes floating in the morning breeze.

It truly is Ash Wednesday.

The ashes of the Mardi Gras fire are being imposed on the foreheads of the faithful and the unfaithful alike, because there are so very few, Caroline imagines, that still linger in a city like New Orleans.

Camille is chanting, mindlessly, "Remember that thou art dust, and to dust thou shalt return."

_Repent, and believe the Gospel_.

The good times are over now. It's the time of fasting, abstinence and repentance. Confess your sins. Better be brave about that one.

"How did they pull me out of the theatre?" Caroline doesn't realize she's speaking until the words are out of her mouth. "Everything was burning…"

"Magic," Camille shrugs, turning from the window to look back at Caroline, smiling mysteriously. "You didn't burn, did you? Do you think that Marcel doesn't protect his own? He _owns_ the witches. They can't practice not because their magic is gone, but because Marcel _controls_ it. He uses it at will. That's what Klaus is so afraid of, that the witches can take him down… Oh God!" Her enigmatic smile freezes in a millisecond, her eyes widening in an expression of panicked realization as she covers her mouth with her hand. Her voice is but a thread when she adds, "… the compulsion is gone."

Caroline frowns, her stomach lurching. "What do you mean? You just gave me your arm—"

"No," Camille interrupts her, brusquely standing up and shaking her head. She begins to pace aimlessly across the room. "Diego told me to feed you, make sure you're okay, but—Marcel, he compelled me, right after Klaus came to town. To never betray him, and Klaus…" Almost bouncing on her feet, she turns towards Caroline, rushing across the room to sit by her side on the bed. She grabs Caroline's hands in hers, squeezing tight, and looks at her directly in the eye. "You have to compel me."

The smell of Camille's blood, incessantly slipping out of her torn wrist, is _so_ distracting—

Caroline has to shake her head, breathe in deeply, pull herself together, and, still, the best she can come up with is a puzzled, "What? _Why_?"

Camille's eyes are so big, so wide, so blue. "They can't know," she pleads. "I can't let them know. _Please_, compel me."

Still frowning in confusion, struggling to keep her thoughts away from the scent of Camille's running blood, so close, and the vivid memory of its taste still echoing on Caroline's tongue, she forces her arms free from Camille's tight grip, waving her ring-less hand in front of her. "They already know about me. The ring gave me away, remember?"

But Camille still shakes her head. "I can't let them know anything that might put Klaus in danger—"

Her words trail off, and as the desperation in her tone rises, Caroline suddenly realizes. Klaus compelled Camille to never reveal any information that might put him in danger, anything that he wouldn't want Marcel or any of his men to ever know. But she is no longer compelled. Not by Marcel. But also —

Klaus can't be daggered. He can't be killed, either, and Caroline feels fine, but—

If the compulsion is broken, then that means that something terrible has happened to him.

Caroline doesn't even stop to think about what she is about to do. She doesn't ponder. She doesn't hesitate. She simply opens her eyes wide and lets her pupils dilate as she whispers, with a calmness and a strength she doesn't feel at all, "You will not reveal any information about Klaus to anyone. You will keep his secrets. You will not betray him. You will not say, or do, anything that might put his life, or the life of anyone he cares about, at risk."

She feels weirder and weirder with every word that comes out of her mouth. She has never compelled anyone in matters of life and death such as this, and she is terrified that she might be messing everything up. She is terrified of what she is doing. She is terrified of what it means. But, most of all, she is terrified to think that Klaus's compulsion has faded. She is too terrified to even be able to think clearly, and determinedly, of what that might mean.

So she concentrates her frustration on the circumstances at hand and, as soon as Camille's eyes recover their focus, Caroline clenches her teeth, fisting her hands in the soft, crimson taffeta of her full skirt and groaning out loud, all her fear melting into searing anger. She narrows her eyes at Camille, her voice a bit more than edgy when she asks, "Why aren't you on vervain?"

Camille returns her gaze with a genuinely confused expression creasing her forehead. "I trusted Marcel. I always thought he'd never do anything to hurt me. And not many vampires come to the bar, because the werewolves are always there—"

"But you're always with Klaus, he could so easily compel you—"

"I trust Klaus," Camille cuts her off, the puzzlement still brimming in her crinkled eyes.

Caroline shakes her head, her fingers gripping the soft material of her gown even tighter. "How _can _you?"

If Camille is still alive, it's only because she serves a purpose, whether that's to be played or manipulated as a pawn in the game of chess Marcel and Klaus are playing, or just to look pretty, a nice bright _living_ piece of art in a hole of decay, as Rebekah said. Pathetically in love with Klaus or not, she'll be disposed of like yesterday's news the minute she's no longer usable. She's a human in New Orleans. She was born a slave to the vampires in this town, and as such she is living. It's _disgusting_, and Caroline just compelled her, not long after she almost _killed_ her, out of control in her hunger. She has never seen Camille more neatly than she does now; she has never understood this city as clearly as she does after seeing it _burn_, and still she isn't ready for Camille's confession—

Her voice is a flimsy whimper: "I love him."

That is Camille's Ash Wednesday confession.

Caroline feels awful, worse than she does about compelling her, losing control while feeding on her—but still she can't help herself: she bursts out laughing, almost hysterical. "No, you don't. You don't even understand what you're saying."

It's not even a matter of, _you don't know him_. You can't love someone you don't even know. It's a matter of, _you don't see him_. Loving Klaus is a blood bath. Caroline hadn't fully understood that until she saw it last night, how dark it really is the world Klaus lives in. It's the blood, and the magic, and the fire. It's heaps of dead girls piled up like garbage, flanking an overflowing Old War bathtub of blood. It's waltzing after a banquet. It's watching the world burn down to ashes around you, and seeing the flames fleeing from you in terror.

To her surprise, Camille laughs, too, but more sadly than manically. "You're right, probably. When I first met him I thought that, if I knew him, then I'd finally understand why evil always looks so incorruptible. Klaus was—he was fascinating and horrifying at once, but I no longer feel horrified."

"That isn't love," Caroline whispers, hiding her eyes. "That's just… curiosity."

Camille laughs again, warmly this time. "I guess you're right. I know he'll never care for me, and I don't mind, so maybe I don't love him the way you love him, but knowing him has changed the world for me. It has made me _see _what life is really like, all the bits and pieces, the dark, hidden corners that most people won't ever even dream that exist. And I _love_ that."

—_I don't love him the way you love him_—

In a way, Caroline truly understands what Camille is saying. Once upon a time, when she first met Klaus and she convinced herself that, as alluring as he was, she hated every last fibre of his devilish being, she had still felt like, just by virtue of existing in her life, Klaus made her world _bigger_. Then he left, and since the first day after he was gone, her world had started growing smaller and smaller and smaller, until she had started feeling entombed. Asphyxiating. Immured in her little insignificant small-town life like good old _Erzsébet_.

"Klaus is like gravity," she finds herself confessing, against her will. Her voice is a whisper; a thread about to give up and break and disappear. "If he wants you, he pulls you in, and getting away is like learning to fly. You have to be strong, and stubborn, and brave enough to accept that as soon as you jump off the cliff, the abyss will swallow you and you will disappear, or you'll crash against the sharp rocks bellow and break your head open."

Camille nods, still chuckling. For a while, neither says another word, because after confession comes contrition. But after only a few minutes of silence, still sitting beside Caroline on the bed, Camille offers her arm to her again, the bleeding gash in her inner wrist bleeding delicately, enticingly. "Want some more?"

Caroline clenches her eyes shut and shakes her head. "No, I'm—," she stammers a bit, but, eyes still squeezed shut, she recovers quickly. "I'm sorry that I fed on you. I didn't mean to—I was in pain, and I wasn't thinking clearly. I don't—I don't feed from humans, normally and—" Her eyes open, and she presses her lips together. Things have been a little different since she came to New Orleans, but there are lines Caroline can't let herself cross. Some memories, some feelings, some attachments to human conventions, as Klaus calls them—they're still too fresh. They _matter_. Still. So she looks at Camille and offers an apologetic smile. "I won't drink from someone who has been compelled."

Camille nods, smiling back understandingly and attempting to cover her wound with her other hand. Her smile sharpens a bit when her eyes find Caroline. "You know you've been feeding off compelled humans since you got here, right?" Her words are a bit of a pose of defiance, but her tone is kind, almost gentle. "I've been compelled since I can remember. It's just the way it is for us in this town."

Standing up to stretch her legs, and walking around the bed, Caroline nods. She knows. She understands. Kind of. Still— "It's sick," she sighs. "I came here so Klaus would free Tyler of his compulsion. He compelled him to protect me when he left town, and because of that, Tyler killed this guy I was seeing, after he found out about me and Klaus, so he couldn't tell anyone, so no one found out—but now everyone knows."

Because of her stupid ring. She knows, yes, that if it hadn't been the ring, it would have been something else, and whatever happened in the theatre was not because Marcel found out that Klaus was lying about her, but still—Mardi Gras is over, and she isn't leaving this town until she finds Klaus, and Bonnie, and everyone else. Everyone will know who she is, she will make sure of that, but still—

Noah died for nothing.

Tyler is free of his compulsion now, but why? Because Klaus was hurt. Because of _her_. Because he was too distracted worrying about her safety, thinking of how his enemies could try to hurt her to get to him, to realize that they wouldn't need to. He was already weak. They didn't need to hurt her to hurt him. The fear that they might hurt her was enough. It made him weak. Vulnerable.

Well —

When they see this through, he isn't going to be one very happy hybrid, is he?

Her aimless thoughts are interrupted when the door of the room opens with a bang, the kick of a heavy boot jerking the wood out of its hinges without effort. Caroline jumps around instantly, her heart jumping and lodging in her throat as adrenaline rushes through her, her hands fisted and her fangs drawing a snarl that—

—dies halfway out of her throat when she realizes who just kicked the door open.

Hayley.

She's standing beneath the doorframe, an unimpressed raised eyebrow arched up at Caroline as she smirks. "Good to see that being kidnapped didn't affect your good spirits much."

Caroline closes her mouth, out of mere good manners, but she doesn't retreat her fangs. Of all the very humiliating scenarios she can come up with in her head, being rescued by _Hayley_, of all people, ranks quite possibly the highest. Seriously. At this point, Caroline would much prefer Hayley to be secretly working with Marcel so she has like, a _super _valid reason to hate her _forever_, but she knows there's no chance that's the case. Hayley's submitted to Klaus, and don't they all know the specifics of how that came to happen. Ugh. And on top of that, Hayley and her incomprehensible, tortured, backstabber romance with Tyler is possibly the only reason why Klaus's pack has accepted Tyler as a second-rate leader. So yes, she is being embarrassingly rescued by _Hayley_ —

Thank God that, as soon as Caroline is about the cross her arms defensively over chest and just _pout_ at the unfairness of her situation, Sophie appears right behind Hayley, and immediately, as Hayley moves towards the window to peep through the curtains and inspect the situation outside, she rushes towards Caroline, holding up in her arms a pair of flat shoes and what looks like some cute, lemon-coloured shorts and a matted pink top.

She barely even smiles _hello_ at Caroline before she pushes the clothes in her hands, "Quickly," she urges, "Put these on. We have to get out of here."

Caroline takes the clothes without thinking, turning around so that Sophie can unzip her gown as she pulls the top over her head. She only manages to step out of the piled-up gown at her feet without stumbling down due to her supernatural agility, but all in all, it takes her less than ten seconds to get changed.

"Camille," Sophie is saying, "I believe that as soon as we get Caroline out, you'll be free to go. She will be okay, that's why they compelled you, isn't it?"

Caroline turns around just to see Sophie pressing her hand to Camille's wound, muttering unintelligible words under her breath to close the wound. Caroline can't help but breathe lighter when the smell of fresh blood diminishes, and for a second, she's ready to bounce out of the door without looking back. It's only when Sophie pulls at her hand that she notices that something's amiss.

"I can't go out," she realizes, her heart beginning to beat faster as her skin itches with the muscle memory of sunlight burning her like a thousand demons, that time in the crypt when her dad— She shakes off the memory and pulls up her hand. "They took off my ring."

"Right," Sophie opens her eyes wide, moving her hand to her back pocket to fish something out. Something small. A ring. An unfamiliar silver ring with a lapis-lazuli stone. "God, I almost forgot. I made this for you."

Much like the clothes, Caroline takes the ring and puts it on without thinking. But then, when Sophie turns hurriedly towards the door—

—suddenly, the questions start heaping up, falling in mass one of top of the other in her head and on her tongue. "Wait," she calls, her feet retreating unmindfully towards the spot where Camille, mindless herself, is still sitting quietly on the bed. Hayley is still standing right behind, her eyes glued to the streets outside. Sophie turns, urgency shining in her eyes, but Caroline doesn't move one millimetre from where she's standing. "Where are we going? Where's Bonnie?"

Eyes wide, wet, warm, Sophie shakes her head. "You have to come with me, Caroline. You have to leave town. It is no longer safe—"

Caroline scoffs, moving two steps back this time, not in fear, but as a firm declaration of intentions. No, she is not going anywhere just because Sophie is telling her to go. How did she know that Caroline would need a daylight ring? How have they found her? Yes, she's right in Marcel's hotel, and of course taking off her daylight ring would keep her well confined for the day, and, if she believes Camille, Hayley was here only a few short hours ago with the other wolves, but, can Caroline trust Sophie? After what happened last night?

"Where is Bonnie?" she repeats, and this time she does cross her arms over her chest, firmly standing her ground. "What happened last night, Sophie? I am not going anywhere until you tell me what's going on."

She hears Hayley groan like a hog by the window, but Caroline pays her no mind. Sophie's eyes are only getting brighter the tighter she presses her lips together, forcing her breath to come out loudly through her nose. "Caroline… I won't lie to you. I don't know where Bonnie is. Last night, she just—she disappeared. We don't know where she is, but I promise you, we will find her. But you have to leave town. Klaus is waiting for you. Please, come with me."

She extends her hand as if expecting Caroline to take it, but Caroline can't even move. She can't even think straight. Bonnie disappeared? Klaus is waiting?

She asks out loud for good measure. "Klaus is _waiting_?" The incredulity in her voice rings almost disdainfully. Why would Klaus wait for Hayley and Sophie to come and get her? "Where is he? Why isn't he here? And what do you mean Bonnie _disappeared_? If you think for even a second that I'm going to just go with _you_, and leave my friends —"

Closing her eyes, Sophie runs her hand down her face, breathing deeply. "Caroline, _please_. I'm sure Bonnie is okay. She might have lit the fire on her own, but I _know_ she wasn't working alone. She couldn't have been. We will find her, I promise. But you have to come with me now. Klaus is already on the plane, we don't have a lot of time—"

"_No_." Klaus is on a plane? And what, he couldn't be bothered to come fetch her himself? She _knows_ he isn't okay. She _saw_ him. His compulsion has worn off, he couldn't turn— "I will not just leave with you without knowing what —"

The only warning she gets is Hayley's impatient, very coarse groan of annoyance moving closer before she feels a hard, firm grip of two hands closing around her jaw. It's quick, a millisecond quick, and Caroline's confused and distracted. She doesn't even have the clarity of mind to think of flashing away before she hears the quiet_ snap_ of her neck bones, breaking in two like a peppermint stick.

—

**Tbc.**

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**Yes, Hayley just snapped Caroline's neck. Yes, I know no one wanted to read that right now, and believe me, I tried really hard to write my way around that, but I couldn't. Hayley has very specific instructions from Klaus to get Caroline on that plane, and there is just no way that Caroline is simply going to pack her bags and leave Bonnie behind. This is why Klaus sent Hayley and not Tyler, because he might not be in great shape right now, but he's still a first-class asshole who gets things done his way ;) So… what did you think? Still confused? Sorry about that, but Caroline's still confused, too—and the whole walking mess that is Camille and her very eff-up involvement in the supernatural playground, isn't going to make it any easier for Caroline to figure things out. Except, well, on the sentimental front, I guess. At least there we're making some progress ;)**

**Next****: Caroline finds herself back home, very much against her will. We find out what happened to Klaus, and Caroline comes to a decision.**

**I hope you liked it - thanks for reading as always! :D**


	15. Chapter 15

**Hello guys, I hate to update Thursdays because no one really cares but, since the chapter is ready, here it is ;) Thanks for all the follows and favourites and comments, both here and on tumblr – it really makes all the difference when I'm feeling down about the show, the fandom, or, you know, writing in general. So thank **_**you**_**, and please, enjoy!**

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**Chapter 15**

**:-.**

The first thing Caroline sees when she opens her eyes, is a familiar, yet hugely unexpected figure. "Elena?"

The blurry figure leans closer, a kind smile evident in the softness of the voice that speaks to her. "Hey, good to see you back among the living," Elena chuckles. "Sort of."

Instinctively, Caroline wants to return Elena's smile, but when she sits up, the stiffness on her neck spreads down over her shoulders, her whole back cramping. It immediately reminds her of her very last second of consciousness, before she was knocked out. _Again_. Uggh. She groans out loud, her hand massaging her still sore neck. "That evil little she-wolf snapped my neck _again_."

Really. For _real_. Caroline's fingers _burn_ with the need to reciprocate, because damn _it_, Hayley sort of has it coming, doesn't she? Just close her hands around the little wolf's neck, and _twist_. Pity, really, that Caroline isn't too keen on the cold-blooded murder of, you know, _actual_ living people, no matter how much they might deserve it for, you know, being horrible and entitled and unrepentant in their disgusting, traitorous selfishness. But, you see, the fact that Caroline doesn't do planned, deliberate murder doesn't mean that she's above taking other measures. Like, for example, knocking out Hayley's teeth the next time they see each other, and watching her use her supernatural werewolf strength to glue her canines back in place. Hopefully she'll look ugly afterwards.

Problem is though, Caroline is starting to suspect that she might _not _be seeing Hayley again too soon.

It takes her longer than it probably should to notice where she is—quite possibly, Caroline figures, because of the quiet, numbing buzz of her frizzing nerves. Vervain. _Again_. A lower dose this time, just enough to keep her out for the duration of the trip back home, she imagines. Because that is where she is now: home. Literally. She's sitting on her bed, in her bedroom, in her childhood home. And Elena is sitting right in front of her, her figure perfectly neat now as she hands Caroline a bag of B+.

With a thankful smile, Caroline tears off the lid, and starts drinking avidly; and as soon as the blood dips down her throat, the grogginess caused by the low dose of vervain rushes through her veins, vanishes in a blink, as does the soreness of her neck. Thank god for home, and Elena, and blood banks. She hasn't seen bagged blood since she left for New Orleans, and damn _it_, it is _cold_, and sterilization makes it a bit tasteless, yes, but Caroline still hasn't forgotten the last time she fed from poor Camille, and it feels so _good_, feeding now with a guiltless conscience.

It's an absorbing feeling, and it helps Caroline openly return Elena's smile when she reaches out to grab Caroline's hand, giving it a gentle squeeze before she asks, "Are you feeling all right, Care? I know most of your things are in your dorm room now, but Tyler thought it'd be best to bring you here, so you could see your mom." Elena's smile widens, and she squeezes Caroline's hand again. "Damon's gone to get here. They'll be here soon."

For a second, the thought of seeing her mom again, of giving her a hug and breathing in the soft lilac scent of her shampoo manages to distract Caroline from every nightmarish worry that was clouding her head when she woke up. She smiles at Elena absently, and can't even think of what to say in response before Elena adds, almost as an afterthought, "Tyler will be back in a second. Elijah called—"

In half a breath, Caroline is jerked back down from her blood high and right into the mess of her current circumstances. She interrupts Elena, her forehead wrinkling almost painfully. "Elijah?"

Elijah _called_?

Elena nods, her eyes darting away nervously. "Yes, um, he wanted to check on you, I think—"

Elena's words trail off when Caroline moves her hand away from her grip, leaning closer and sitting up tighter. She doesn't stop to ponder her question before it jumps out of her mouth. "Where is Klaus?"

_Where is Klaus?_

Elena's soft, tender smile trembles slightly, even though she's obviously struggling to keep it firm and solid on her lips. She hesitates before she even attempts to answer Caroline's question, biting her bottom lip as if debating with herself whether or not she should say anything at all. Weighing in the possible repercussions of facing Caroline's anger, versus the potential consequences of pissing off Klaus. Caroline clenches her teeth, her anger searing, and it's perhaps the manic look in her eyes that helps Elena come to a decision, and realize that if there was _ever_ a time to be on Caroline's side—

"He's home," she says at last, her voice firm and steady, because Elena is _all_ about being honest for honesty's sake, and letting Caroline be free to make her own choice and wilfully pick the path that will lead her towards her eternal condemnation. Kind of. So she specifies in case Caroline is confused about what _home_ means, and adds, "He's at the Mikaelsons' Manor."

Caroline asks, mostly because the script of the conversation they're having requires her to, "Here? In Mystic Falls?"

And also because, she figures, the thought that he's a race across the familiar woods away, comes as an unexpected sort of comfort. She is home now, and so is Klaus. Here in Mystic Falls. And so her final choice keeps on being delayed by the overpowering circumstances of how hectic their life is, being always in mortal danger all the time, all over the place.

Caroline feels the strange urge to smile, relieved, and Elena nods in answer like Caroline's question is a real one. "Yes," she even clarifies, "You all guys just came together on Klaus's plane."

And just like that, with that image, Caroline's pretty house of cards comes crumbling down. Because she's home, and so is Klaus, but _nothing_ is all right.

Her first thought is, _of course Klaus has a plane_. That's not even the tiniest bit surprising. But her second thought, however, is far more troubling. Because if it's true with Sophie said, if Klaus was really on a plane, waiting for her… if they've come here together, then why did he need to knock her out? Why let Tyler take her home, instead of taking her with him, to his house?

Caroline leans back against the headboard, closing her eyes and resting her head on the hard wood behind her. She wants to laugh. She wants to cry. But she's determined not to let hysteria overcome her this time.

The reason why Klaus knocked her out for the trip, the reason why he sent her home like she's a wrongly delivered package and Tyler is the postal service—

—it's quite possibly because Klaus _knows_ that there is no _freaking_ way in hell that she's _ever_ going to be okay with the fact that he plucked her out of New Orleans against her will. He knocked her unconscious for transportation like she's a goddamned _pet_. He _forced_ her to leave Bonnie behind—

—_Bonnie_—

"Bonnie." Caroline's eyes widen painfully, and she literally jumps off the bed, the half-finished blood bag falling on her pretty vanilla-coloured sheets and splattering them bright red. Caroline doesn't care. Her feet quickly find the flat shoes Sophie gave to her before Hayley snapped her neck, her eyes quickly scanning her right hand to make sure her new daylight ring is in place before she's ready to flash out of the house, cross the woods in one gulp of air and _demand_ Klaus that they go back right _this minute_—

—when Elena stops her, standing up with her and grabbing Caroline's hand before she can speed away. Her brown eyes melt like chocolate fudge when Caroline frowns at her. "You should wait for Tyler," she says, a timid warning in her tone bending her words inward. "He knows more about what happened—"

Caroline doesn't let her finish, forcefully yanking her arm free from Elena's grasp. "We left _Bonnie_ there, Elena. Nobody knows where she is, or if she's okay, or—"

A familiar, unexpected, but most certainly not surprising voice cuts off Caroline's desperate words. "Well," he drawls, "my bet is Bonnie Bennet is doing just swell in the old Big Easy. Sure she's having an absolute _blast_ with all the Voodoo going on down there. Must feel _just_ like home."

_Damon_ —

"Caroline…"

It's the kind, warm voice of her mom that pulls Caroline's out of the cloud of pure, blinding rage that overwhelms her when she hears Damon's obviously amused, _evil_ smartass comments about Bonnie. It was Damon's big mouth and his absolute, self-absorbed idiocy that sentenced Noah to death, and got them in this mess to begin with. So that now he's being so freaking _chipper_ about Bonnie being left behind in New Orleans—

Caroline doesn't feel the powerful anger that races through her veins subside until she's clinging to her mom, hugging her tightly as she breathes in her familiar, soothing scent, and tries to relax, focus, keep calm, and find a way through the whirlwind of emotions rushing through her blood. "Mom," she whispers.

"I'm so glad to see you, Care." Her mom's arms squeeze her one last time before stepping away, her eyes setting gently on Caroline as she smiles, the worry evident in the trembling of her lips. "Are you okay?"

Caroline nods with as much enthusiasm as she can muster, her hands gentling rubbing her mom's arms, refusing to let go completely of the embrace. She forces her smile to shine as bright as it ever did. "Yeah, mom. I'm fine. And I'm so happy to see you, but—" The temptation to look away and hide her eyes from her mom's inquisitive gaze is unbearable, but Caroline manages to resist. She hasn't made it through here to cower like a scared little child in the face of the ghost of motherly disapproval. So she disciplines her smile to remain unmovable, and schools her voice to come out steady and determined. "I have to go see Klaus, mom. Bonnie got left behind and—"

She's not expecting Elena to be the one to interrupt her, but it's her low voice that, quietly, cuts off Caroline's words. "Care… You can't go see Klaus right now. He doesn't want—"

Caroline snaps around on her feet, her eyes wide as saucers as she takes in Elena's flinching expression, her fists clenched on her hips. "He sent his wolf bitch to snap my neck, Elena. The he knocked me out with vervain because he's a freaking coward. He _forced_ me to leave Bonnie behind, after she went to New Orleans because _I_ asked her to, to help his asshole hybrid ass." She's fuming. She's _literally_ fuming, she is sure. Actual smoke is surely coming out of her ears. "If you think even for a second that I give a crap about what he wants right now—"

In the middle of her outburst, while Damon sniggers like the jackass he is, somehow Elena manages to pluck up the courage to interrupt Caroline again, this time speaking louder, and much more certain. "Caroline!" Elena swallows, tilts her head, and looks meaningfully, worriedly at Caroline before she finally says, "Bonnie did something to Klaus."

_Bonnie did something to Klaus_.

The silence that falls in Caroline's overcrowded room is deafening, and from beneath its heavy weight, Caroline can hear a low, constant ringing buzzing in her eardrums. It's maddening. Terrifying. It blocks out the world outside for just a moment, and before she can even think of what Elena is saying, she finds herself flashing back.

She can taste the thick grey smoke crawling down her throat and suffocating her lungs. She can feel the heat of the flames, radiating from the burning walls, but never scorching her skin. She sees Klaus on his knees, his face contorted in pain, his throat clotted so not even a word could slip out, and he couldn't warn her, there was someone standing right behind her, they were going to hurt her—

Caroline had been so sure. _We're safe_, she insisted. Time and time again. _We're safe_. She had known as soon as she saw the fire, as soon as she saw vampires burning by the dozen in the theatre, as soon as she realized the enchanted rubies and amethysts were protecting them. It was _Bonnie_. Bonnie had made the Varieties Theatre go up in flames. She had done it for the witches, to take down Marcel. _They_ where safe—

—but Bonnie had no reason to keep Klaus safe. She said it herself, _I have every reason in the world to hate Klaus, to want to see him tortured, or buried in concrete_.

She doesn't want to think about it. She doesn't want to think of _why_ Klaus might have pulled her out of New Orleans. _Why_ he's separated her from Bonnie. If she's done something to him—

—he will kill her—

—if Bonnie has hurt him—

—if he is hurt–

—she can't let him hurt Bonnie—

—she needs to see him if he is hurt—

She flashes out of the room, past Damon and past her mom, and out of the house, past Tyler who is standing on the porch—

—before anyone can do anything to stop her.

Her mind is completely blank as she races through the woods. She doesn't think. She doesn't _want_ to think. She doesn't want to imagine what she'll find at the other side of the wilderness. Klaus, hurt. Klaus, furious.

She's almost grateful when the front door of his mansion opens before Caroline has stepped one foot on the driveway, and when she gets there, Rebekah is waiting beneath the doorstep, one curious eyebrow arched beneath her shiny, keratin-smooth Tresemmé bangs.

"One whole hour," she mock-exclaims, her eyes gleaming smugly, "_Wow_."

Caroline rolls her eyes, shifting on her feet as she regains her breath. It's only now that Rebekah is standing in front of her that she realizes that she doesn't know yet where Stefan is. He wasn't with Damon or Elena, so immediately, before she has to face the music, Caroline deflects, for just a minute, she tells herself, as she asks rebekah, "Is Stefan here with you?"

Rebekah frowns, unsurprisingly, letting go of the doorframe to cross her arms over her chest. She huffs, clearly annoyed. "Stefan stayed behind to help Elijah find your friend."

Caroline wants to roll her eyes again, her frustration now aimed at both, Rebekah's off-the-charts bratty attitude and selfishness, and Klaus's unbelievable nerve. Because _of course_ Stefan is _allowed_ to stay behind and help find Bonnie, and yes, Caroline isn't so out of it yet not to realize that this is actually good news, because if Stefan is helping Elijah then that means they aren't hunting down Bonnie to kill her on the spot. But, still, Klaus sent _Hayley_ of all people to snap Caroline's neck. He made the decision for her, like she's a child in his care that doesn't know what's good for her. He literally carried her across the country like an unconscious sack of potatoes and, _ughhh_, she's really going to _choke_ him. With both hands, really. Right now.

So she stops thinking.

She leans on the balls of her feet, ready to speed past Rebekah, and is about to flash off when, in a millisecond, Caroline's sudden movement is brusquely stopped by an iron hand gripping her shoulder. Instinctively struggling against the force holding her back, Caroline tries to focus her fogged gaze, just in time to see Rebekah's narrowed eyes looking somewhere over Caroline's shoulder.

Keeping Caroline immobile with just one hand, seemingly without effort, Rebekah asks, "Are you here alone?"

Caroline growls, her gums stretching as her patience wanes. She opens her mouth, ready to answer Rebekah's stupid question with a witty retort as soon as one of those comes to mind; but before she can make a sound, a loud, violent whoosh of wind rushing by her ear startles her. She has no time to react before Tyler has materialized out of thin air right by her side, and is casually answering Rebekah's question, "Of course she's not."

The creases in Rebekah's perfectly moisturized forehead deepen in disbelief as she slowly nods, a clear warning shining malevolently in her eyes. "Good," she practically hisses, "Because you know what will happen to you if you let her out of your sight."

Shaking his head, Tyler sighs. "I'm not going to let anything happened to Caroline, your evil master knows that."

Rebekah laughs, suddenly and brightly. "_My_ evil master?"

There's a silent yet loud _touché_ hanging in the air between them, but honestly, Caroline couldn't care any less. She can't believe they're back to square one, with Klaus's turning his back on Caroline and trusting Tyler with her safety, like she really is a child who can't take care of herself, and will be okay with the whole world just stopping so Klaus can have his army of minions babysit her. Has _nothing_ changed?

At last, and thank the heavens for small mercies, Rebekah's bitchiness proves enough of a distraction for both, herself and Tyler, and Caroline can smoothly flash past them, speeding up the stairs and finding Klaus's studio in one shaky, shallow breath.

He's standing right there, his back turned to her as he punishes a blank canvas with a large paintbrush, dipped in dark, glowing, blood-coloured red. Caroline watches him pain the canvas red from corner to corner, stands there and waits for him to turn around in anger, because she is _here_, and that means she has disobeyed his instructions. Elena said, he didn't want her to go see him. So she waits for him to make the first move, and as she does, she suddenly realizes, that he looks fine. He looks perfectly fine. She doesn't know what she was expecting, because she never allowed herself to actually stop and think about it, that he was hurt, that perhaps he was in pain—

He looks fine.

He looks like nothing is wrong with him, except the signature anger that is painting the canvas red, one layer of colour on top of the next.

Until—

—and she feels _it_, the terror tightening a knot with her intestines and _pulling_—

—she realizes that he hasn't turned around yet, because he doesn't know that she is there.

He hasn't heard her. He's too engrossed in the task of beating the canvas to a pulp with the paintbrush to notice that there is someone struggling to breathe right behind him, and before—

—he never heard her coming. He never heard her talking with Rebekah downstairs.

"Klaus…"

Her voice is shaking like a leaf beneath a wind storm, and is one part anger for each nine parts of terror. Her heart literally stops beating when he turns on his feet, startled, the paintbrush hold up defensively as a weapon, the fright in his widened eyes quickly melting into recognition first, irritation later, and at last, an entirely different kind of fear.

"Caroline," he says, nodding his head, lowering his eyes to the ground to recover, hide away whatever was in the haze of his look that he doesn't want Caroline to see. He hasn't been alive for over a thousand years not to learn a trick or two about disguises, and she's beginning to get to know him well enough that, as soon as she notices his jaw setting in anger, she walks bravely towards him, hands firmly set on her hips. His eyes are hard as steel when he lifts his head, his voice hard as a rock. "You shouldn't be here. It's not safe."

No pet names. No charming smiles.

It makes it all the easier for Caroline to pretend she doesn't know what deep down she knows—_Bonnie did something to him_—andpoint her finger at him, narrow her eyes and harden her voice, almost as much as he does, when she speaks, determined and unafraid of his anger, while internally she quivers with the terror that his apparent weakness provokes in her. "Oh, don't worry, my bodyguard is downstairs."

"Caroline…"

She doesn't let him get a word in. "_You_ sent Hayley to break my neck. _You_ shot me with vervain and basically kidnapped me. _You_ made me leave my best friend behind. _You _dared make that choice for me. _You_ hurt me, so don't you dare give me that crap about how you're protecting me. Not anymore, Klaus, because I know—"

She doesn't mean to hit him.

She doesn't mean to. She gets carried away in the anger, and the frustrated rage, and _you hurt me_, and keeps walking closer and closer, until her pointed finger hits his chest, and the inertia of the movement rolls it back inside her clenched fist, and she's still leaning closer, still _so_ angry. She doesn't want to, but she pushes him, slightly, because _he hurt her_, and—

—in half a blink he's falling backwards clumsily, propelled by the pressure of her hand on his chest. The paintbrush makes a mess against the carpet, stains of red paint like blood splattered only inches from their feet. Caroline barely has time to react before her vampire instincts kick in, and she leans forward, grabbing Klaus's by the arms before he falls back against the wet canvas that's standing right behind him.

He looks ashamed and scared when the world stops spinning, and as if by magic, Caroline isn't angry anymore—well, she _is_, but her anger subsides and gets buried beneath a ton of different, more urgent, more incontrollable emotions. _Bonnie did something to him_. She isn't afraid either—not in the way she's been since she saw Klaus fall down when the fire started in the theatre. Too scared to let her thoughts dwell on what it might have been that happened to him. He _looks_ fine. But he never heard her coming. And when she pushed him, without wanting to, he almost fell. She had to grab him to steady him up, and he relented to her strength effortlessly.

She looks him in the eye and grabs his hands, immediately entwining their fingers when he closes his eyes. She tugs gently, and whispers, "What happened?"

Clenching his closed eyes, he shakes his head, as if pointlessly refusing to answer. He disentangles his hands from hers, turning away. She lets him, because if it's easier for him to not look at her while he tells her, then that's okay. She can compromise. She can be patient. She can wait, and give him space, and not start pulling at her hair manically until he says, his voice lower than a murmur, "Your friend the witch has a morbid sense of humour. She's safe, by the way." His voice raises, the words enchained in a rope so tight that Caroline flinches when he snorts, all the tension snapping as he blurts, "I'm sorry I had to knock you out, but I _saw _Diego take you, Caroline. I saw him, and I could do nothing. He took you from me, and I did _nothing_ to stop him, I couldn't—though, mind you, I have got a few ideas about what I'll do to him as soon as it's safe to go back, but—" He still doesn't turn around to look at her, but there is no mistaking the pained rage in his words, "—you're out of your mind if you think I'd let you stay behind in New Orleans, after I saw them take you away from me."

"What—?" That's not what she asked. That's not what she wants to be thinking about. _What the hell happened_?She has to remind herself, _be patient_. He will tell her in his own terms, and Klaus being Klaus, his own terms probably involve long, elaborate speeches full of curves and unexpected, old-fashioned turns of phrases, and very many murderous threats. So Caroline stops her question short, and when he moves, she follows him to the small leather couch that stands right beneath the tall windows of the room. In silence, and barely moving, she waits for him to speak again.

His eyes are lost in the dozens of paintings that he left behind when he left town in a rush, almost a year ago. For a moment, Caroline is tempted to follow the path of his gaze, but she doesn't want to get lost in a daydream. So she lowers her head and fixes her eyes on her naked knees, wrapping her hands around her legs as she waits.

The words, when they come, are low and slow. He speaks as if it hurts him to admit it. "I'm weak," he says, his breathing laboured. "I'm slow. I can't turn. If you hurt me, I don't heal immediately. It's slow, and it's painful—"

And Caroline already knew.

She already knew, even though she cannot understand how it's possible. She knows she has to ask, however, just to make sure, so she raises her eyes and looks at him even if he doesn't want to look back at her. She swallows, and speaks: "Are you—?"

Maybe she can't say it, or maybe he can't hear it said, so he answers before she's done asking, shaking his head. "No, of course I'm not. That's not possible." He turns his face to her, at last, and there's something familiar, something Caroline didn't know how terribly she had missed until she sees it again, in the way his lips tug upwards. "I'm still very dead, love. I'm still a hybrid. I'm still the same, _very_ old monster I ever was."

"But then why—?"

He rolls his shoulders, his eyes once again moving away from her to roam over the mess of his studio. "I'm just no longer in control of the perks of being a vampire. No heightened senses. No speed. No strength. Just the hunger, but—" He turns his head quickly to look at her, and the bitterness of his steel-hard eyes melts into an unexpected, playful smirk, "—I couldn't bite you if I tried."

It's a stupid thing to be smiling about, Caroline knows; and a stupid moment to be smiling at all, but still she does smile, a bit shyly because of the not-so-hidden innuendo that's really kind of perverse, given the memories that revisit her when she thinks of _him _biting _her_ . But she nods, makes it as if she actually understands what he is telling her. She doesn't though. It's evident as soon as she tries to wrap her mind around it, and the urge to smile back at him fades as fast as a shot of lightning. "How is it even possible that you—?" But then she thinks, _how _is hardly the crux of the matter, so she tries again, and asks what she really, desperately needs to know: "Bonnie did this to you?"

Klaus catches her unintended meaning without difficulty. He even rolls his eyes, in spite of everything, "Unclench, love," he sighs, only a hint of exasperation roughing up his breath. "I'm not going to kill your friend only because she cast a spell on me, just to prove that she can."

It's a strange feeling that stands out among many other strange feelings. The combination of relief that rushes through her when Klaus says with so many words that he doesn't intend to kill Bonnie even if she has hurt him, left him so vulnerable—and the unavoidable mistrust that weighs down on her relief, because _why_? Who dares stand up against Klaus, get the best of him, and live to tell the tale?

Now that he's had the time to recover after she caught him off guard, he doesn't look too bothered by the magically-induced condition that afflicts him, but Caroline has trouble buying the whole façade of calm and understanding. For a thousand years, Klaus has being used to a complete dominion of the world around him, an absolute control over life and death that he no longer has. All his power _gone _is just one second, one bad move—and Klaus is okay with that? Caroline can't even imagine going back to being—not _human_, no; he isn't human. But weak, and slow, and so unaware of the world around her—and she's been a vampire for five minutes or so. After a thousand years, Klaus is being forced to make do with a body that's little but a wasted human corpse, in all its feebleness and fragility. He can feel pain. He can be hurt. Can he also—?

She blurts it out without thinking, "Are you still immortal?"

She means _immortal_ in the original-vampire sense, of course. Klaus understands, but he still frowns when he nods, like he was expecting her to ask something else entirely. He still explains, though, his voice weirdly gentle when he says, "Yes, Sophie tested me. I still can't be killed unless you drive the white-oak stake through my heart, which comes as a relief, doesn't it?" He shifts his shoulders, tilts his head and grimaces. "But I can be hurt, and even though I've learned quite a few tricks over the centuries, it's not entirely safe for me to go about business the way I usually do so, in case you're wondering, that's what the annoying bratty sister is for. She's my bodyguard," he chortles, mirthlessly. "You friend Bonnie is hilarious, really. Sentencing me to depend on my baby sister for as long as the spell endures. It's quite the Dantesque punishment, after I wasn't the nicest brother for the past millennium or so. I do appreciate, I really do, love, Bonnie Bennett's sense of poetic justice, in more ways than one. It's quite brilliant, actually, her choice of spell."

For a second there, Caroline feels like she's been required to applaud, after the soliloquy. But as every time, she's too busy trying to make sense of anything she can disentangle from the maze of flourishes in his grandiloquent, maddening speech. Fact one: he can't be killed. Fact two: he can be hurt. Fact three: Rebekah is supposed to be protecting him, and—oh, surprise—he isn't too happy about that.

The part about Dante and poetic justice only makes her roll her eyes and arch her eyebrows at him. "Is that why you aren't going to kill Bonnie? Because of her sense of poetic justice?"

He laughs again, this time even more mirthlessly. There's no trace of amusement in his laughter; he actually sounds like he's choking when he hides his face and pinches the bridge of his nose. "In a way, I guess you could say that," he finally mumbles, one second before he rubs his hand over his face, frustrated, before leaning back on the couch and looking at her, eyes wide and strangely calm. "But I actually have three reasons for allowing your friend's trespassing to go unpunished."

Caroline breathes in slowly, her lungs puffing up until she feels them about to explode. Then, she exhales, bit by bit. Her voice is barely audible when she asks, "What three reasons?"

Klaus has the cheek to shrug, still fully pretending to be unaffected. "Well, first of all, love, I have no wish to see you in the kind of pain you would be, if I were to kill your friend."

Caroline's eyes widen in genuine shock, too fast for her to even think of reining in her reaction. First reason is he doesn't want to see her hurting? Oh, how easy it would be to laugh that one off, roll her eyes and pretend she doesn't believe him. If anything, she'd say, he doesn't want her to hate him forever—what does he care that she hurts or not? But unfortunately for her, they're way past the point of careless dismissal. He's no expert in the terms and conditions of being in love, but he is learning quickly.

It's evident enough in the way his eyes don't run away from her when he says he doesn't want to see her in pain. It's a trip—another one. The way her heart jumps up and lodges in her throat, and she has to grind out the words past the knot when she asks, her voice weak and shaking madly, "What's the second reason?"

Klaus rolls his shoulders, _again_. "Second reason is your friend just outwitted us all, sweetheart. I admit, I haven't been up to my A game as of late, and that's entirely your fault, by the way—" he points an accusatory finger at her, stretches his brows meaningfully, "—but I'm not completely stupid. I'm not going to just kill a Bennett witch whose magic has most certainly been bound to the powers of the Lanier descendant, and just hope that it doesn't backfire on me—"

Caroline's head is spinning again, but she will not lose track of the story this time. So she interrupts him, "The Lanier descendant? The child?"

Klaus tilts his head, a clear _duh_ loud and obvious in the gleam of his eyes. "Your friend is very powerful, love, but no witch in the world is powerful enough to burn down a theatre, weaken me like this, and take down Marcel—especially given the fact that Marcel had his own witches in the backstage—all in one single blow." He shakes his head, his lips breaking into a smile of wonder and… admiration? "Sophie says, somehow Bonnie found a way to channel the throttled magic of the Lanier witch, which effectively liberated Davina from the yoke of Marcel."

Caroline literally gapes. "Are you saying that Bonnie—?"

"—broke the Lanier curse?" His smile is so devious, that _now_ he looks amused, in spite of the muzzle that restrains him. "Well, love, only a Lanier witch can break the Lanier curse, but Elijah and Sophie are certainly working with the hypothesis that Bonnie made that possible by breaking through Marcel's walls and binding her magic with the throttled powers of Davina Lanier, yes. Which, by the way, is the third reason I will not kill Bonnie, despite how badly she has aggravated me."

Caroline shakes her head, her eyebrows pulled tight in puzzlement. "Why—?"

"Well, love," Klaus quietly explains, patiently, like one teaches a child to count to ten with an abacus. "I'd say with her little magic trick against me, your friend Bonnie is actually protecting me, just being a little bit cruel and vindictive in her ways. But she's only showing off. I'm sure Elijah, Sophie and Stefan can convince her to cast off the spell as soon as they find her. After all, the longer I stay vulnerable, the easier that the wrong monster hears about it, and the higher their chances of stealing away the white-oak stake and driving it through my heart, which, fortunately for us all, your friend Bonnie doesn't really want to happen."

It makes sense. Except, you know, for that part that doesn't. "Then why make you weak at all?"

"To show _me_ that she can, first of all," he sighs, only this side of annoyed, before shaking his head in resignation. "But mostly to show the newly liberated witches in New Orleans that she can force my hand and get me to negotiate. That they don't really need to kill me, or either of my two remaining siblings, as I am sure they are intending to do."

"So you think Bonnie's protecting you?"

"No!" He shakes his head frantically, turning his whole body towards her and grabbing her hand in between both of his. "She's protecting _you_, Caroline. Don't you see? That's why I trusted her, I told you that. Bonnie will never let anything happen to you—"

"But she made you _weak_—"

His laugh, sudden and loud and deep and beautiful, is utterly heartbreaking. "You think it was _Bonnie_ who made me weak, Caroline? I was already weak. I only cared that nothing happened to you, and I was only worried about you, about what might happened to _you_ if Marcel found out—"

It doesn't sound like a reproach, even though it is, and Caroline finds herself squirming on her seat, sitting on her free hand and squeezing his fingers with the other to suppress the urge to grab his face and kiss him hard and deep, because how is it possible, that he hasn't sunk a stake through her heart yet? He _loves_ her. Love is a _weakness_. But love, they're only now beginning to figure out, can also be a strength.

Klaus is still talking, on and on the way he usually goes, "—of course a part of me knew that something like this would happen if I dragged a Bennett witch into the fray, but I knew then like I know now that Bonnie Bennett will stop the world before she lets the witches of New Orleans carry out their plan for revenge against us, evil old vampires. She's proving to be quite the mighty queen, isn't she?"

_No_, Caroline shakes her head, frowning, rubbing her fingers over her clenched eyes as if that can make her understand, what she already understands but doesn't want to accept just yet. Still, her words trembling sickly, she asks, even though she already knows—"What plan?"

"Well, love," Klaus replies, so steadily that he sounds almost bored, even though his deep blue eyes are beaming excitedly, terribly, beneath the dark yellow afternoon glow that seeps in from the window and shines over their heads, "the eradication of the entire vampire race, of course."

—

**tbc.**

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**I just fed you 3000 words of straight exposition. Please, feel free to unfollow this story and never read a word of it again. Ugggh, sorry! To make things worse I have to tell you, neither the scene, nor the conversation is over. Chapter 16 will resume things right where we left them of, and hopefully, some rough edges around the witches' part of the story will be polished and will make a little bit more sense. I promise I'll find a way to put in either smut or cuddles, depends on how the tone of the chapters evolves, to make up for all this boredom ;)**

**So, you may be wondering, why make Klaus weak and vulnerable if he isn't in any immediate danger and the effects of Bonnie's spell are quite probably just temporary?** Well, in my understanding, that is how basic symbolization operates in narrative. At some point, something in the story has to become the literal embodiment of the overall theme of the piece, and the overall theme of this story is that Klaus has fallen in love with Caroline, and within the boundaries of the life he has lived for the last thousand years, that love is in fact a weakness. If he wishes to continue his existence as he has always done, then he is, in effect, weakened by his love for Caroline. He's vulnerable. Anyone can hurt him now. But if he learns how to use that weakness to his favour, and adapts his ways, he'll turn his vulnerability into a different kind of strength. It's his love for Caroline that makes him hesitate initially at the prospect of killing Bonnie in revenge for what she's done to him—and it is that moment of hesitation that keeps him from being blinded by rage, and allows him to think rationally, and realize that, indeed, he can only win this war so far as he can have Bonnie fighting on his side. Weakness, thus, becomes strength.

**But… what will happen now? Oh, by the way, we will be seeing Marcel again ;) ****Next****, though: Caroline (at last!) will (definitely, probably, maybe) come to a decision, and the Mystic Gang will go back to their usual routine of plotting out crazy plans to save the day. ****And smut. Or cuddles ;)**

… **one last thing: **If you leave me a review as a guest, I have no way to reply to you, so if you have any questions, or you want a link to the fanvideo, or the pics of the girls' Mardi Gras gowns and masks, or any other art for the story, please go to my tumblr, **theelliedoll**, and ask me, and I can reply there with a link ;)

**Thank you all so much for reading and making it this far with me! :::hugs:::**


	16. Chapter 16

**Hey guys, here is Chapter 16! ;) Not exactly action-packed but I hope you find something in this that you'll like! Thanks for choosing to read this story, and for all your kind support and friendly words – they make every effort worth it!**

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**Chapter 16**

**.-.**

_The eradication of the entire vampire race_, of course, he says; so casually, like _of course_, what else could it be? One vampire pisses off the witches in _one_ town, and that's it for them. For _all _of them. No more vampires in the world. _Ever_.

A bit of an overreaction, if you ask Caroline.

Klaus, however—

He leans back on the couch and exhales, drawing out his legs and stretching his neck until Caroline can hear the bones of his spine quietly popping into place. All of a sudden he looks _tire_; and sounds a mixture of bored and _exhausted_ as he adds, almost as an afterthought to his previous revelation, "We're assuming that your friend Bonnie just wants to make sure I can't hurt anyone, or take by force something that, she considers, doesn't quite belong to me, or you know, do anything rash and impulsive that might compromise the peace that she is trying to negotiate—or, well, _will_ try to negotiate once the witches are done with Marcel, to prevent the vampire apocalypse and thus save you and your friends."

_Done with Marcel_. _Prevent the vampire apocalypse. Save Caroline and the rest of her friends_.

Somehow, some pieces of the jigsaw puzzle still don't fit quite right.

Caroline shakes her head and wrinkles her forehead, the web of questions tying a knot in her brow. "But…" _She_ called Bonnie to ask for her help, to cast a spell with Sophie that was powerful enough to protect them in case Marcel used the rackety clamour of the Mardi Gras roaring crowd to try something against them. Against _Klaus_. But now Bonnie has cast a spell on Klaus, and she has broken the Lanier curse, and she is working with other witches in the city? Caroline wishes there was a loose string she could tug, so the cluster of doubts would come undone. But there isn't, so instead she half-says, half-asks, "It was Elijah's idea to call Bonnie." It _was_. "Did he know—I mean, how could Bonnie have planned all this?"

Isn't that the million dollar question?

Well, probably not.

Klaus clicks with his tongue, and again stretches the muscles of his back as he turns his whole body towards Caroline, lifting his leg on the couch and sitting on his ankle so that he can fully face her when he answers her question with another question, predictably, his brows pulled almost as tight as hers, "Didn't Bonnie tell you why she came to help, why she was so willing to protect _me_, of all people?"

A random fact about life: witches hate vampires.

Bennett witches, what do you figure, hate vampires most of all.

Bonnie, you ask? She probably hates vampires most of all the Bennett witches.

So then _why_—?

Caroline nods slowly, meaningfully; she understands the question the second she thinks of the answer, remembering as she tells Klaus, almost as if in confidence, "She said that you had promised to liberate the witches from their enslavement." Her eyes widen in silent realization, _oh my god_. "She said that her mom still had friends in New Orleans."

_Of course_—

Klaus raises one eyebrow pointedly, as if asking, _see_? Then he moves closer, conspiratorial. "Witches in New Orleans didn't have _that_ many reasons to hate vampires before the Lanier curse, curiously—"

He still looks strangely tired to her eyes, but also weirdly relaxed, comfortable as he always does, Caroline is learning, when he gets on storyteller mode. He does love talking, doesn't he?

"—Witches were a force to be reckoned with back in the day. They were very well organized all over town into very powerful, tightly knitted covens. Under the reign of my family, vampires kept to their side of town, the darkest streets in the Quarter. We allowed witches to practice freely to explore their very own kind of magic. They were free to try and protect the weak in whatever way they wished, free to try and keep the balance of nature as well as they could, given the circumstances… in so long, of course, as they didn't come directly against us."

Listening attentively, Caroline turns on the couch as well, to face him fully. She lifts her legs and buries them beneath her weight, sitting on her feet. Unmindfully, the movement draws her closer to him, so she tucks herself in a little tighter against the backrest of the couch, scooting over until her shoulder is casually brushing his hand. For a short while, neither says a word, and Caroline smiles up at him because she _feels_ like it. "So that's it?" She finally asks, "We find Bonnie, we help her convince the witches that an alliance with your family is the better option, and you finally get back what Marcel conquered when you were gone?"

"We?" His eyes widen, and the rumbling of his deep laugh narrows her eyes in anticipated annoyance. "No, sweetheart. _You_ are not going anywhere."

So few words, and back to square one they go.

But oh, she's learned quite a bit since square on, and so she returns the laugh, brisk and high-pitched, the epitome of indignant. "_I'm_ not going anywhere? Why, because you say so?" She doesn't wait for him to answer before she scoffs, loud, wordlessly daring him to bring _it_, snap her neck again. Or try. She can take him now, what do you say to _that_? She even dares roll her eyes, unruly. "_Yeah_, that's going to happen. Sure."

He warns, uselessly, as ever: "Caroline…"

So she scoffs again, a huff of a snort erupting from deep down, right in between her lungs. "This is _Bonnie_. My best friend Bonnie. You just said that _I'm_ the reason she's trying to keep you alive, right? So _you_ owe _me._ I'm the hero here. I'm the saviour." He tilts his head, more amused than irritated by her silent implication that _he_, Original-Hybrid-King Niklaus Mikaelson, has been stuck with the role of damsel in distress for the duration of this fourth act. Like, okay—she isn't planning on kicking him now that he is down, _kinda_, and as a result have him change his mind about ripping to shreds the entire city of New Orleans, or, you know, the whole state of Louisiana. But still, she's daring enough to shrug, nonchalant, "If you want Bonnie to plead your case, you're going to need me there. She'll listen to me."

Remember the shoulder that was casually brushing his hand? Yeah—that's not happening anymore. Nothing casual about the whole thing. Instead, his fingers are finger-walking across the hollow space between her shoulder and her neck, taunting her scorching nerves, soft and tingling because apparently (yes, she already knew, shut _up_), he seems to have the greatest appreciation for her rebelling ways. So his fingers toy with her, so gentle; a sharp contrast to the unwavering strength of his voice when he _commands_, without the directive, "It's not safe, Caroline. Or do you think that I enjoy running from war with my tail between my legs?" His eyes twitch dangerously, as his fingers, weakened, pathetically human in their fragility, close tenderly over the rubbery membrane that recoats the bones of her shoulder. "I have claimed New Orleans as my own, love, and not once, but twice I've been chased away. I've granted Elijah two days top to find your friend and liquidate as many of Marcel's vampires as might have survived the fire, but if he doesn't…" He flattens his palm over her skin, and even though he is the weakened one, it's her flesh that slips, clammy. Oh, _shocker_. "Well, sweetheart I'm done running. It's been enough of that for a thousand years. But _you_?" The glint in his eyes is _terrifying_. "I can snap my fingers and have Rebekah lock you up in a very _real_ dungeon, here in this same house. And I will _not_ let you out until I am certain that I can protect you, which right now—"

See? Back to square one. Except, and Caroline _really_ wants to literally knock on his head, see if it sounds empty—well, there are places you can't really go back to, can you? And isn't that was she was so afraid of, all along? Not being able to go back? Funny how now that they're sitting so close together, and he is _all right_, despite the obvious—she isn't so scared anymore. So she shrugs, _again_. "Fine." Whatever, really. He better sit tight if he's planning to intimidate her. "Then we wait until Elijah finds Bonnie, and then, I go to _my_ friend, and _ask _her to lift the spell, so you can be all strong and alpha hybrid _macho_ again. You'll be able to protect me, oh you _my hero_, and I'll—"

Funny, isn't it? How it's all fun and games, until someone dares say the magic words.

Funny too, how, it's always him who caves in the end. So unafraid of how much he _wants_ her.

"And you'll what, love?" he interrupts her, eyebrows arched in a clearly fake expression of naughty curiosity; voice steady and words unwavering; his whole body relaxed like this isn't _it_, the very deep, very rotten heart of the matter. "This isn't your war, love. By virtue of some hocus-pocus trick of your witchy friend, Tyler is no longer compelled. You've got what you wanted, haven't you? You can go back to your _normal_ life now."

But _what_—?

And—

_Oh, please, please can she slap him now_? It'll hurt him this time. For real. And he freaking deserves it for the _insult_, the hurtful implication that what she's done-what they've been doing, together—was all a ploy to save Tyler. Disgusted for a second, she moves away from the crawling, incessant touch of his hand, sprawled out over the skin beneath her shoulder. She does twist her wrist inward over her thigh, ready for a hard back-slap that she knows, can knock out at least three of his teeth in one stroke. She's ready, and he knows. A simple little old magic trick is not going to erase a thousand years of perpetual training in the art of battling a million enemies, so still he anticipates her movement without effort, and instead of trying to stop her, his eyes dig harder, drinking her in deeply. Defying. Eloquent in their cruelty as they ask her without words, _but Caroline, love, isn't that what we've been doing_?

It stops her hand dead, a millisecond before she swings one at him.

_You stay for a week, enjoy the city life at its fullest and most licentious, and after Ash Wednesday, when we must face the self-denial of Lent and it's time for almsgiving and repentance, we will talk_.

At some point that she doesn't want to remember, the plan changed. Now the sweepers are sweeping the ashes of Ash Wednesday already, back in the haunted streets of New Orleans, and so it's time they talk. And how can she slap him—how can she _hurt_ him, when she can see how her fingers are prying open his heart, can feel the viscose thickness of his blood as it slides between her fingers, and he is so afraid, still, of the answer she hasn't given yet?

(She's been so good, such a pro, at keeping him at arms distance when it mattered the most.)

_This isn't your war, love_, he says; _you can go back to your normal life now_.

Instead of looking up in anger, Caroline allows her eyes to open and soften as as her gaze sets on him, and it's her hand that invades and conquers now. It's her fingers spreading out into his short sandy air, her fingernails scraping his scalp as, with subtle supernatural strength, she turns his head slightly, enough that he can't look away when she leans closer, the words a caress to his soul. "No, Klaus. It is _your_ war." The one she's been fighting has been against herself, and guess what? _She won_. She feels like cheering as she stares at the abyss opening bellow her feet. "But I am going to fight it too, _with you_."

She can only hope that he gets what she means.

That she is not _leaving_ him.

How stupidly, how uselessly she tried to keep herself from falling.

It's quite the spectacle, the way his fingertips twitch against the dark brown leather of the couch, like he's itching to touch her, but doesn't quite dare, now that she has moved her shoulder away from the caress of his hand. Her fingernails however stay where they've been, buried deep in his hair, and so she tugs him closer, smiles an exhilarant, choking smile when his eyes clench tight to smother the tears before they dare rise. He shakes his head against her hand, of course, refusing to believe. Refusing to let himself fall, and she wants to snort, because really, _how do you like them apples_?

It's a rush, holding the upper hand as she does when she seals her promise with a brushing kiss. He returns the kiss with a whisper of her name, hissed out between his clenched teeth. Such a timid kind of protest coming out of such an almighty man—she feels it pour down her throat, gliding through her windpipe, flooding her lungs until she feels the air explode from deep within her chest, in a splash of barely audible words that she chews against his lips. "I'm going back there with you." _I'm staying with you. For as long as you'll have me. For as long as I can make it. For as long as I survive, before you consume me and I disappear completely_. "I want to be with you."

_I will not leave you_.

It's forever and a day, she always knew. She always _feared_. You can't go home again, little girly girl Caroline Forbes, from the town of Mystic Falls, Virginia.

He doesn't say it. He doesn't say, _don't you dare change your mind, or I will rip out your heart like you're ripping out mine_. But his tongue sweeps over her bottom lip, parting her mouth so she can swallow the declaration of love and the confession of sheer, mind-blowing terror that is tottering on the very tip. She lets him do gladly. He plunges the unsaid words down her throat with the caress of his tongue rolling against the roof of her mouth. _I love you_. She closes both hands on his cheeks, grinning against his lips as she feels the scruff scraping her skin. _Don't leave me_.

She moves slowly, deliberately, so the beast doesn't take over. But still she rolls on top of him, straddles him firmly and rocks down against him without letting go of his mouth for even a quick breath. She doesn't utter a sound, and pulls back before she gets too carried away because, life-changing decisions or not, she's highly aware in a way Klaus can't be right now, that downstairs in the living room Rebekah is pouring a glass of extra expensive scotch for Tyler, trying to ease out the awkwardness of their wait as they pretend they both don't know, can't hear, what's going on upstairs. What Caroline just promised. How Klaus reciprocated with his mouth and hands.

"So…" she smiles, sheepishly.

His grin, of course, is nothing but utter _wolf_. "So, it's quite possible that the witches don't know about you yet. For all we know Marcel only figured out that we were lying, but he may not know the whole story—"

_What whole story_, she wants to ask, but come _on_, she knows a lot damn better than interrupting his speech—

"—and I'm sure Bonnie will not want to expose you to any additional danger, so you _could_ stay here, until we've settled the terms of our agreement, me and the witches. I am not sure that giving them more leverage against me right now is a good idea—"

—or maybe she _doesn't_ know that much better, really. Because she interrupts him, _go figure_, by sitting back on his knees and spreading out her out her legs to move away from his hips, crossing her arms over her chest as she huffs. "The witches now?"

Okay, yes, the little _could_ he put in there is kind of cute, and a definite improvement over 'I will lock you up in my ancient dungeon of pain and torture' from only a few minutes ago, but come _the hell_ on, _now the witches_? Does it ever end, this man's list of excuses to keep on building up the brick wall around his deader-than-dead heart, each time she kicks it down to the ground?

"Caroline, sweetheart. It is for your own safety that I—"

"Whatever, Klaus," she rolls her eyes, disappointment brimming deliberately in every hitch of her breath. "I'm Bonnie's friend. I'll be there as Bonnie's friend, and when your stupid power chess play is over, you let them think you've seduced me, or brainwashed me, and you ease me in naturally into the court."

_Like a concubine_.Uggh. Whatever. Like she cares.

He's been alive for a freaking gazillion years. If he wants to protect her, _fine_. He can find whatever way he deems best, and she'll go with it. As long as one) he doesn't compel her friends; two) he doesn't lock her up in an actual freaking dungeon; and three) he gets it inside his big hard empty head that she's made up her mind, sold out her soul, and is at last more than ready to free fall into the rest of her eternal vampire life, no safety chute to break her fall.

And honestly? It's annoying, how tired (and how fast) she's growing of being his dirty little secret.

But his voice is so thick still, heavy as the pressure of his open hands as he presses them down on her thighs, fingers sprawled out as far as they can reach. "If you're serious about staying—"

"Oh no, I'm just joking," she snaps, the snark bitter as poison on her tongue as she sharpens her gaze to cut him like a razorblade, bitch-mode activated. "That's actually why I've been resisting your _irresistible_ charm for two years, didn't you know? Because I had no idea what I was signing up for, thought this was all a game, and I could turn my back on you and walk out the moment you did something that I found annoying or disgusting or inacceptable or—well, I'm sure you get what I'm saying."

"Oh, my sweet Caroline," he grins, seemingly suddenly distracted from the point he was trying to make only two seconds ago, even though his hands keep pressing down, his fingers expertly rubbing the taut flesh of her legs. "You are adorable, but… No, what I meant to say is, if you're staying with me, I will not keep you in the shadows, love. You are meant for the lights, Caroline. No neon glow can ever outshine you."

She's torn, as always, between the urge to roll her eyes at the unashamed corniness of his declarations of affection—_you're beautiful, you're strong, you're full of light_—and the irresistible urge to kiss him silly every time he says things like that—directly out of one those stupid romance novels she is _not_ embarrassed to admit out loud that she enjoys. Because really, in the scale of Caroline's guilty pleasures, it's not like reading trashy romances ranks up very high, so all in all, it's _truly _a good thing that she gets distracted from the overbearing temptation of letting him get away with saying romantic crap to get out of a particularly muddy situation. She doesn't have to admit defeat, because just as she is about to do so by crashing her mouth on his, just as the breath pours out of his lungs, warm and heavy as a caress as the hissing air rolls out _outshine you_, Caroline's attention is diverted by the sound of knuckles knocking on mahogany downstairs, hard enough to paint brushes on any human's skin—

—but the fingers knocking on the Mikaelsons' front door aren't human.

It takes Rebekah half a second to rush to the front door to let Damon and Elena in, the signature groan of annoyance turning up Caroline's smile in spite of how much she is dreading Klaus's reaction to basically everyone _ever_ sticking their nose in his business, especially now that he's feeling… a bit under the weather.

So she wrinkles her nose and makes an effort to look as cute as possible when she notices him looking at her with an unvoiced question sparkling in his eyes, eyebrows arched this side of irritated because he may not hear what's happening downstairs, but he can read her well enough to know the fun times are over for the time being. She sighs a bit and pecks his lips quickly, moving off him and standing up in surprisingly steady legs.

"Damon and Elena," she explains, with a brisk shrug of her shoulders.

"Of course," Klaus rolls his eyes as he stands up, over-dramatic the way he likes to be. There is however a blatantly playful glint in his eyes when he winks at her before holding open the already-open door of his studio so that she can walk out of the room with him. "Don't tell me. Bonnie is Elena's best friend and she is outraged that we can even think of keeping her in the dark while her friend is MIA and potentially in danger. Am I right?"

She smacks him across the stomach on her way out— "Very funny" —and lets him walk behind her all the way down the stairs and into the living room where Rebekah, Tyler, Damon and Elena are very obviously waiting for them.

Tyler is standing by the fireplace with a hard-edged expression plastered on his face, arms crossed stiffly over his chest and one hand tightly wrapped around a lowball glass of scotch, knuckles as white as the balls of his eyes when he nods briskly in Caroline's direction as soon as she and Klaus step into the room. Damon is standing by the window, seemingly—and falsely—preoccupied with the beautiful lush landscape outside. Elena and Rebekah are sitting down at opposite ends of the room and, out of deeply-ingrained solidarity, Caroline quickly moves to sit by Elena's side. Klaus remains on his feet, obviously less relaxed that he would be in a situation just like this, if he wasn't he under the influence of an incapacitating spell. It makes Caroline inexplicable nervous, his unexpected vulnerability. She fidgets and squirms and, in spite of her good intentions of solidarity and sisterhood, in the end, it's Elena who settles her hand on top of Caroline's as a sign of silent support.

Rebekah is the first one to speak. "This is awkward."

_Yes, it is_, Caroline thinks but doesn't say because, ugh, drawing attention to how awkward it is it's only going to make it _more_ awkward. So _really_.

Thank God for Elena's upfront determination not to be pushed aside in whatever life-and-death situation is going on this week. She doesn't even acknowledge Rebekah's useless bitchy input before she sets her eyes on Klaus, dark and firm and unflinching. "We want to help. We want to go to New Orleans with you. We can help you find Bonnie, and we can talk to her —"

"That's a very ennobling desire, Elena," Klaus interrupts her, tapping his foot impatiently, letting on through his tense demeanour the nervousness nothing in his voice or words reveals. "But I am afraid I will have to decline your offer, as unfortunately there is nothing you can do to—"

"Do you still have that ancient fancy toy you and other deranged members of your family use to hang people off the ceiling so you can smoothly slice out slabs of their flesh while you drain them?"

It's hard to pinpoint what is more shocking—that it's Damon who interrupts Klaus, his eyes still lost somewhere outside the window, and his voice a lot darker and deeper and more serious than it usually is; or, you know, the casual random mention of elaborate torture. Everyone in the room frowns as they turn their heads towards Damon's tall profile as it stands darkened by the heavy curtains that frame his figure; perfectly drawn _what the fuck_ faces creasing their faces. Everyone except for Klaus, Caroline notices as her eyes dart from Damon to settle on him. Klaus is smiling creepily, yet almost wistfully as if thinking nostalgically about slicing out slabs of people's flesh.

"Yes, I do," he sing-songs, unabashed. "I keep it in my red room of pain, next to my many other devices that are almost as much fun as Rebekah's favourite set of chains and traps. Want to borrow one of my toys? I honestly never thought that sweet Elena would be into that kind of hardcore—"

Caroline can't help herself. "Klaus…" she warns.

To no avail. Damon is up Klaus's throat before a sound leaves her mouth, his eyes quickly flying to Caroline before he thinks better of it, and instead of signing on his own death sentence, draws a cocky, murderous-looking grin on his face as he strides closer to Klaus, until they're standing only two feet away. "Nah," he smirks. "I was just entertaining the thought of hanging _you_ from the ceiling. It's not like you _can_ do anything to stop me, right? And I think it'd be fun watching you squirm in pain this time, the way I did that time you compelled me to tear out the flesh off the bones in my hands."

It's quite a disturbing image. Damon hanging from the ceiling and off some complicated torture device while trying to rip apart his own hands because Klaus had compelled him to do just that. For no good reason, possibly. Except that Damon is an ass. And does it make Caroline the worst person in the universe that she doesn't really feel _that_ sorry about Damon enduring a bit of torture on Klaus's hands? Not that Caroline is in favour of torture, but Damon needs to learn a lesson or two about keeping his mouth shut. Caroline saw the way his eyes flickered to her when Klaus mentioned Elena and she _knows_ the thought of casually mention the kind of kinky stuff Caroline is actually into did cross his head. Of course—given the fact that mind-controlled sex with a dose of painful, terrified blood-sucking added to the mix is not really something she was into at the time, Caroline has no doubts that, weakening spell or not, Damon would have left the Mikaelsons' Manor dragged by his grey stony feet if he had said a word. And yes, he kind of has it coming for a different million reasons, not the last of which being Noah because yes, Damon couldn't have known that Tyler would actually _kill_ Noah because of what he said, but call it karma, if you will.

Still, Caroline loves Elena and Elena loves Damon and it's not like Caroline is going to be judging anyone any time soon for their choice of romantic partners—so maybe it's better for everyone that this one time Damon keeps his gigantic hole uncharacteristically shut. He apparently has _some_ self-preservation skills yet, because what he says about watching Klaus squirm only gets him a warning.

Klaus actually smiles, and maybe that's the scariest part. "I wouldn't poke the bear if I were you, mate. You know what they say about bewaring the wounded animal."

"Oh, but I happen to _enjoy_ poking the bear, Klaus."

Elena however agrees with Klaus, maybe because _she_ is actually interested in helping to find Bonnie, and knows that pissing off Klaus is definitely maybe not the way to go. So she pleads, "Damon, please" —

—but it's curiously Tyler who puts an end to the impending fight when he snorts, arrogantly unimpressed by the quite ridiculous display of testosterone and empty threats being thrown left and right for no apparent reason beyond the need to waste everybody's time. Klaus, of course, is trying to deter Damon's determination to get in the middle of his business in what he surely considers yet another lame attempts at typically disastrous Salvatore heroics, but what is Damon trying to achieve _exactly_, other than an original-vampire hand lodged in the cavity of his chest one of these days?

"You can save the pissing contest for another time when we're all a little less busy, so we can properly enjoy the carnage," Tyler says leaving the empty glass on the corbel over the fireplace and walking to stand behind Caroline and Elena, resting his hands on the backrest of the couch and leaning forward. He's looking directly at Klaus who is standing right in front of him and, as she feels Tyler's weight sinking down onto the couch, his tall frame looming over her, Caroline mentally flinches. She has no doubt that Tyler has heard each and every word of her conversation with Klaus in his studio, and yet there is no trace of resentment in his voice when he sighs, "Elijah called to check on Caroline. He said something about Sophie being out on a solo mission?"

Klaus nods. "We know." He tilts his head, his lips curling happily. "Apparently there are still some witches in New Orleans who are gullible enough to believe that they can actually convince Sophie to join their rightful cause against vampires. Little do they know, however, that little rebellious Sophie happens to _love_ vampires. Well, _one_ vampire in particular, she's really not that fond of our race as a whole, but we all know how powerful true love can be when it insists on breaking every barrier and conquering through all, don't we? I'm sure her loyalty to my brother is enough guarantee that she will protect our interests."

"Who's Sophie?" Elena asks, her neck violently turning as her eyes constantly move from Klaus to Caroline. "Is she the witch that Bonnie was going to help with the spell?"

Klaus chuckles, darkly. "Well, she's the witch we _thought_ Bonnie was helping with a spell—"

"Sophie is Elijah witchy girlfriend," Rebekah interrupts, crossing one leg over her knee and adopting quite the dignified and haughty pose, like she somehow _suspects_ Elena isn't going to be exactly thrilled with the news she just delivered so bluntly, despite how much Elena loves, or claims to love Damon. "We can trust her. She knows her way around New Orleans and she can handle the witches. She managed to escape Marcel's curse unscathed, so don't worry, she will find your friend."

Caroline nods, wanting desperately to believe Rebekah's words. Sophie is resourceful. She's strong. She's powerful. She knows the darkest twists and corners of New Orleans like the palm of her hand. Elijah trusts her. Klaus trusts her. She made Caroline her new daylight ring. It wasn't Sophie who double-crossed them. It was _Bonnie_.

"Who's Marcel? What curse?"

Caroline actually groans out loud when she hears Elena's questions, so innocent, so eager. She kind of feels bad when Rebekah just rolls her eyes, dismissive and condescending. "This is why you people can't come with us. You have no idea what you're getting yourselves into."

"Elena," Caroline intervenes, turning on the couch where they sit together so Elena focuses solely on her when, as softly and gently as she can, she tries to reason, pointlessly, "Maybe Rebekah is right. Bonnie is safe. She's working with the other witches in the city—she just helped set them all free from a curse that this vampire, Marcel, was using to control their magic. We believe that the witches are trying to get revenge for what Marcel did to them and they're going against _all_ vampires. That's why Bonnie cast the weakening spell on Klaus. To prove to the witches that she can control him, that _all _vampires can be controlled. We're going to negotiate a peaceful resolution—"

"_A peaceful resolution_?" Damon cuts her off with a puff of a laugh, dry and bitter. "Big Bad Hybrid's got you really messed-up in the head, Blondie, if you believe even for a second that he's going to let the witches threaten him and walk free. He's going to rip out all their human beating hearts as soon as they lower their guards, and make no mistake—" his voice lowers, his eyes narrow, and he points his finger almost menacingly towards Caroline, "—Bonnie will be the first one to die."

It's a weird feeling, terrifying and exhilarating at once, to realize that even though she has trusted Damon for a while, kind of, more or less since he decided not to kill her mom when she found out he was a vampire, because apparently he does consider her a friend, still, Caroline trusts Klaus a great deal more that she will ever trust Damon. She harbours no doubt that if Klaus says he will not kill Bonnie, he won't. Klaus can be horrible and violent to unconceivable extremes; he unapologetically sends his most despicable werewolf to snap her neck; he vervains her and threatens her with chains and dungeons, and all of this only in the expanse of the last few hours. But he doesn't lie to her.

It's painfully evident in the way he throws his head back and laughs like he was just told the funniest joke he ever heard in his over one thousand years of existence. "You think I don't need witches? You think I can exterminate witches? You think witches can't undo me?" He's not laughing anymore, but the big broad smile remains pasted on his face, frozen into a terrible, cruel grimace. "I didn't turn because my feisty vampire girlfriend asked me to drink her blood in the throes of passion, mate. A witch _made_ me. A witch created me _originally_, out of thin air, with little but a drop of human blood and a carefully crafted spell. You think that if witches found a way to create vampires, they can't also find the way to unmake us?"

The silence that spreads across the sumptuous living room chills Caroline to the bones. She feels it creeping into her marrow, and languidly unfurling into her veins, sending a slow, terrified shiver down her spine. Because if the witches hold Klaus's destiny on their hands, they all are henceforth doomed. Because it's true: Qetsiyah created a spell for immortality a thousand year before the originals were born in a Viking settlement in the land that is now Mystic Falls. With the spell, she created a _cure_. There is no spell that a witch can do, that another witch cannot undo.

Rebekah's voice is deep and soft, yet on the verge of breaking when she whispers, her eyes wide as she looks at Damon, almost as if pleading with him so that he understands, "Witches in New Orleans are very powerful. They're connected to the spirits of nature in ways that are unimaginable for us, and as far as they are concerned, Louisiana is their territory, and the fact that the only three remaining originals have returned to their town?" Her pitch rises, and so do her eyes as she allows them to roam to room, settling for half a second on each of them before her voice drops to the ground, and she murmurs. "Well, I'm sure that right now they consider that a blessing."

You can hear the collective gulp as their throats constrict around the anguish that creeps up their lungs after Rebekah's words. At first, no one says a word. Damon's been effectively shut up for the time being; Klaus looks enamelled, impassive as a statue of beautiful, unbreakable marble. Tyler shifts his weight on his feet worriedly, and Caroline doesn't know what to say.

She doesn't know what to _think_, until at last Elena asks, again, as determined to never surrender the fight as she's ever been. "So what do we do?"

It's Klaus who answers, of course. "We wait," he says, _commands_, voice firm as a rock, unquestionable. He turns on his feet and walks towards the small bar he keeps in a corner of his living room, opening the liqueur cabinet to, apparently, pour them all a drink. He's an age-old aristocrat: manners always come first if you're not _really_ rattling him up. Only when he's standing between the counter and all eyes are on him, he shrugs indifferently, his lips twitching into a small smile. "We wait for Sophie to call and, well, if she doesn't in the next thirty six hours... Then I suppose we'll have to find your friend ourselves."

—

**Tbc.**

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**I know, I know. No cuddles and no smut! But they made out! ;) And Caroline made her choice – too much of an anticlimax? Sorry about that – the plans for this chapter changed as I wrote it but, I can promise this, ****next****: before saying goodbye to Mystic Falls, for good this time, Caroline takes Klaus out on a date. So next chapter is basically shippy filler stuff before we go back to New Orleans for the final chapters of the story. **

**As every time, thank you so much for reading this fic! You're still there – wow, I can't believe it. Thank _you_!**


	17. Chapter 17

**Hello guys! Here is Chapter 17 – thank you so very much to all of you who've left me feedback, whether here or on tumblr. That really keeps me going when the show makes me want to give up and just move on from the fandom altogether– so thank you! To all of you who've made it this far into the story, reading and following and commenting and favoriting – I can't tell you how forever grateful I am for that. Truly. Thank you!**

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**Chapter 17**

**.-.**

He tells her to go back to her mom.

He tells her it could be her last night in her hometown for quite a while, and she should spend it with her mom. They'll have time together, he promises without so many words, when the dust of the battle settles. Time is the one luxury they'll never run out of. So—

—he kisses her forehead chastely, earning himself a baffled frown, and sends her on her way, Tyler on her track, back home to be with her mom.

(Tyler goes to his own house for the night though, with Matt. Just after he makes a rushed phone call to get an update on the werewolves, which is how Caroline chooses to refer to his phoning _Hayley_ as soon as he steps down from her porch, not even bothering to wait until he's beyond her earshot because, honestly, why should he?

He _just_ listened to her making out with Klaus, so—)

Caroline wishes goodnight to Tyler with a quick smile, and prepares mac & cheese as a dinner for two because she doesn't know how to cook, _whatever_, sue her; she has an eternity to learn. Her mom still thanks her with a broad smile and her soft, warm hands cupping Caroline's face like they did when she was little, so very little, before her dad left and her mom became the workaholic she thought she needed to be to keep her town safe for her child, to overcompensate, to keep afloat. To forget and move on.

(Caroline has never loved her more.

But—)

_I'm leaving with him_, Caroline says, at last, in the middle of her tale about the magic of New Orleans.

_I'm leaving with him_.

It's such a thrilling thought.

She tells her mom everything she _can_ tell, not wanting her to worry too much, but wanting her to understand, to be happy and excited with her, about how exhilarating _life_ is in a bustling, full-of-go city like New Orleans. How the streets thrive feverish with joy and colour and music. How it's only been a week, and sometimes it feels like a fleeting dream that went by in the fickler of a burning matchstick, but some other times, it feels like she's been living in the heart of Louisiana her whole life, in a sort of parallel reality; because of how it has shaped her, this new view she has of the world, and of her life, and of herself.

Her mom smiles the whole time, and Caroline's heart clenches painfully, skips a beat as an electric twinge shocks her, each time she thinks, _this is it_. She's flying away from the nest, at last, and she almost can't believe her luck, that she died at only seventeen and is now leaving home, and miraculously there is no bad blood behind her. There is sadness, for those they have lost—for her dad, mostly. But she let him go with no regrets, just as she leaves her old life behind now, and her old self. Human girl Caroline Forbes, good and loyal and profoundly insecure.

Rest in Peace.

Her mom beams, a bright open smile when it's time for bed at last. "I'm taking the day off tomorrow," she announces. "We'll go to your dorm room, get a few essentials that you can take with you, when you leave."

Caroline nods, because _some_ things, she wants.

And so they do. The next day.

After a weird night spent in a spine-tingling mixture of old familiar smells (her cool soft pillow, her threadbare green sheets, freshly changed after the blood she spilled in the morning) and a heavy, pressing absence weighing down in the bed with her. His musky, _warm_ scent, faded into a memory. The muscle memory of his body pressed against her. With no help from a shot of vervain or a snapped neck, it takes Caroline an hour of tossing and turning to fall asleep without him, and she _hates_ him for it, because it's been a freaking _week_, for heavens' sake.

And still he misses him, when he's not there.

But at last, she does fall asleep. Eventually, alone in her childhood bed.

She feels younger when she wakes up; more innocent, in a strange sort of way. It's only an illusion, the nostalgia of remembrance, as she allows herself to get carried away in the honeysuckle-sweet memories of lighter days, when she didn't need to drink the blood of living, breathing creatures to keep the dead, borrowed blood in her own veins pumping in and out of her heart. It's only an illusion—

—but it's an illusion that she manages to hang onto for a little longer than usual, today; at last as long as it lasts, her house-special English breakfast, sitting with her mom on a small table outside the Grill. They drink in with their morning coffee the clear rays of sunlight of the unexpectedly luminous early-spring morning, and as soon as they're done, they drive to Whitmore, bright smiles plastered on their faces, to get the few indispensables that Caroline may need before she dares jump in into her new life. Her favourite pair of jeans, of course; and her favourite pair of shoes. A tattered rag doll that she had treasured even before she could speak. A shoebox filled with old letters and postcards from her dad and Steven, and a pack of photographs wrapped with a rubber band; photographs of Bonnie and Elena and herself, together, growing up. When they were just girls, and life was easier and full of a different kind of promises than the thrilling, dangerous sort that await them now. Her laptop, too; she's going to need that. A duffle bag, in short, filled with clothes she loves and mementos of the life she's walking away from—

—and just one token of the new life she is taking a flying leap into.

A beautiful diamond bracelet that once upon a time belonged to a beautiful princess. But that now is _hers_. Because it was given to her twice—the day of her eighteenth birthday, her _first_ birthday. The night that Klaus walked into her life and shook her world upside down, forever. And then again exactly one year later, in the form of a wordless promise. _One day_, he told her once. _Happy Birthday, Caroline_. He was still waiting, a year later; and so was she.

They aren't waiting anymore.

That's, as soon as her mom lies down for a nap, just a minute before Tyler comes knocking on the door, Caroline decides to text Klaus.

_I'm taking you out tonight_.

Tyler's come to check up on her because old habits, in case you didn't know, die hard. The werewolf regiment back in New Orleans has little news, he says; they're all weakened after the full moon, and in no condition to go sniffing around town, track down the remnants of Marcel's vampire army and hope it turns out for the best. Vampires are stronger any other day of the month. They're a lot harder to kill. They're older and more resourceful. They're more careless. They don't hesitate in the face of ruthless, beastly—

The beep of Caroline's phone interrupts Tyler's explanation.

_Is that right?_

Caroline's lips curl despite herself, and despite Tyler's frown, and so the topic of their conversation quickly moves away from Klaus's pack and turns towards the two large coolers that Tyler has left unattended on her porch. "Blood bags," he tilts one shoulder, following Caroline's questioning gaze. "We don't know what's coming, so… Better be prepared."

Caroline nods, her fingers twitching as she clutches her phone in the palm of her hand, fighting the urge to ignore Tyler and reply to Klaus's playful, smug text as she struggles to concentrate on the conversation she's actually having right now, face to face with her ex-boyfriend and dear friend who has probably spent all day raiding all the hospitals in the county to provide for them all. She barely manages a little smile, however, and a second nod. "Good."

Tyler disregards her obvious distraction, for the sake of both of them, and lets out a quick, cut-up sigh. "I took Damon with me," he explains, nodding his head towards the coolers. "He has a lot more experience stealing bagged blood than I do, so—"

His words trail off, his eyes fall to the ground, and Caroline wrinkles her forehead, immediately anticipating what's coming next. Damon has been helping Tyler get the blood bags. They've been together all day. Damon is not backing down—and of course neither is Elena—from their determination to go back to New Orleans with them.

_Obviously_.

They don't trust Klaus. They're never going to let him handle the situation and deal with Bonnie on his own—not when all their lives are at stake. Not when it comes to protecting the people they love.

They will _never_ trust Klaus.

And as much as Caroline wants to resent them for that, and as much as she really isn't sure that it's such a good idea, Damon and Elena and all the drama that surrounds them and follows them around wherever they go, going down with them into the hot mess that is New Orleans and the situation with the witches going rogue, Marcel's pissed-off and scattered vampires, those who survived the fire and the wolves, hiding God knows where in the city, and Klaus's little useless pack of entitled werewolves—

(_yes_, okay, maybe _useless_ is too harsh a word since it's them who actually saved her when Marcel's lover boy took her, according to Camille, but, _uggh_)

—Caroline understands.

She wouldn't be able to sit back and wait on her ass while her friends jumped into the fray, and risked their lives to protect them all. She wouldn't be able to do _nothing_ and let others handle it. Especially when 'others' were the likes of Klaus and his less-than-stable family. Caroline may have chosen her life with Klaus rather than her life without him, but Elena, Damon, Bonnie—even Stefan, maybe—

—they are allowed to their mistrust, and it's not like Caroline can blame them for it.

So she bends her neck and lowers her gaze to catch Tyler's eye and reassure him, with a quick roll her shoulders, "I guess we'll need as much vampire muscle on our side as we can get, right?"

Wasn't he just telling her that the werewolves aren't much use now against Marcel's remaining vampires?

_Beep beep_—

Her phone rings again.

On pure instinct, Caroline's thumb slides over, unblocking the screen without thinking. She chews on her lip to hold back a traitorous smile, anticipating the speech balloon that awaits her but keeping her eyes steadily on Tyler. It's a hell of a lot of _awkward_, but fortunately for them both, and only this side of annoyed, Tyler takes the beeping of Caroline's phone as his cue to nod his goodbyes and be on his way, now that his mission of checking up on her and subtly passing on Damon's message has been successfully completed.

Caroline nods back at him, _see ya_, and, grinning like a fool, like the seventeen-year-old girl she was when she was on the day she was killed, she kicks shut the front door of her house. Leans back on it, and still fighting off the giddy smile with her teeth, she taps the chatting app of her phone excitedly, her grin growing loud when she reads Klaus's insistent message.

_And where, may I ask, are you taking me out to, love?_

She types her reply in half a second. _Nothing fancy. There's no need to dust off your tailcoat_.

It's only Mystic Falls, after all.

But it's _only_ Mystic Falls she wants tonight. Mystic Falls and Klaus; to properly say goodbye to her old life, and greet hello to the brand new eternity that awaits her.

And damn _it_, she can hardly wait.

It's what he texts back: _I can't wait_, and a winky face.

Caroline laughs, again; a short, loud merry bubble of laughter that bursts out of her throat but that she quickly crushes, her teeth biting her bottom lip sheepishly. Her mom is asleep, so better keep it quiet. For the time being, anyway, she decides to ignore the innuendo she spies between his words, and instead simply replies, as matter-of-factly as one can sound in text-form, _I'll pick you up at 7_.

She has plans that might warrant a winky face or two, but she'd rather keep those to herself for the time being. Let him wonder. Let him squirm for once, dragged out of his comfort zone.

Beep beep—

_You'll pick me up? That's not very courteous on my part_.

Out of his comfort zone alright. Klaus might be the very textbook definition of old-fashioned for a myriad of different reasons, but tonight he's going to have to compromise, adapt and overcome. No fancy restaurants or classy jazz clubs in a cultured worldly city. No extravagant seafood on the menu. No waltzing until their feet feel about to drop off.

She texts back—

_We're going out Mystic Falls Style. Nothing particularly courteous about it_.

True fact.

Greasy burgers at the Grill; tequila shots, and a quick, messy hook-up in the Falls. Of the kind that leaves dry leaves tangled up in her hair and resistant grass stains in the clothes they will keep on, will only pull aside _just_ enough to—

—well, you get the idea.

(She spends the rest of the afternoon thinking about it, but _hush_—

—it helps the hours pass her by in a blur and, before she knows it—)

Klaus is not extremely impressed with her plans when, as soon as they're out of his house, 7 o'clock, _exactly_, she tells him to drive to the Grill.

"Burgers?" He arches one eyebrow pointedly at her as he turns his face from the road ahead. "I'm putting both our lives in danger for _burgers_?"

Not _just_ burgers—

But whatever, blowing off a stray lock of hair that keeps getting in her eyes, she basically ignores his usual tendency to melodrama and leans back on the passenger seat. It's her date; it's _her _calling the shot. He's basically a glorified chauffeur for the time being, from the moment they get in his SUV and, perversely amused, Caroline waves goodbye to Rebekah. She was just standing there, looking appalled as Caroline tucked her bags in the truck, just in case Klaus's phone rings any second, and they all have to run. Rebekah had asked, _So it's true, then? You're coming with us?_ Caroline had simply ignored her, and flashed a fake, sickeningly sweet smile.

She's in an extraordinary bright mood, given the circumstances—and she isn't going to let Rebekah of all people ruin her. Or Klaus, and his snobbish distaste for burgers.

"This is my last night here, isn't it?" It's a rhetorical question. Caroline knows how to count to thirty six, and she knows what will happen if they don't get any news soon. So let her say goodbye. "Well, then tonight is all about feeling nostalgic for the good old days when I was alive and the high of my week was Friday Night Lights, cute boys and free booze at the Grill."

He shows her the respect of _not_ snorting in derision, because how pathetic was her old small-town life, and really, why does she feel to need to get all wistful about it? He only shrugs, his right hand falling off the wheel to squeeze her knee affectionately. "Your wishes are my command, love, you know that. I just hope you're not planning to include any cute boys in our date, or your last memories of lovely quaint only-slightly-disturbing Mystic Falls will be appropriately tainted with unnecessary bloodshed."

She rounds her eyes broadly, pretending to be shocked. "Unnecessary?" It's so easy to mock him sometimes, really. "So you do not intend to kill anyone tonight? _Good_. Because I'm making new memories before the night is over, and they involve the woods, but they do _not_ involve grave digging and body disposal."

The devilish smile that splits up his face lights up his eyes and _ugh_, does he need to be this ruggedly handsome all the time? It's awfully distracting. Especially when he winks at her, oozing off gallons of charm and sex appeal. "And, pray tell, what would those new memories of the woods involve, specifically?"

Sex. Like, yup. _Hot_ vampire-original-hybrid sex.

But for _now_, Caroline reaches for the wheel to keep him from getting any ideas about doing a U-turn halfway up Main Street and driving back to where they came from. She stretches her eyebrows and nods sternly in the direction of the road. "Burgers _first_." She waits until the car is safely parked to poke at him, her serious expression moulding into a silky smile as she hints, "You're gonna need your strength."

She's out of the car before he can say or do anything about it, and well, _yes_, she _might_ be enjoying his incapacitation a little bit more than it's right or appropriate, because how often can she taunt him like this with the certainty that he isn't going to flash her back not into the car, but directly back to the heart of the forest or the sumptuous mattress of his bed before she can keep on torturing him? Yes, she knows: their time is running out. They're a phone call away from being dragged back into the mess of blood and magic and violence and confusion that is waiting for them in New Orleans, but she wants to have her fun. Just for tonight.

First, it's burgers and tequila shots, and a little tiny bit of an important conversation.

"So you haven't heard anything new?"

Klaus stares at her with a wicked grin still painted on his face, twitching each time she—out of habit, mostly—crunches her whole face as the tequila burns its scorching, blood-pumping way down her throat. "No," he answers, his eyes fixed on her as he eats his cheeseburger as gracefully as he suckles on scallops, and damn _him_,the seductive curl of his lips makes her tingle in all the right places, for all the wrong reasons. "We assume most of Marcel's day-walkers were burned to ashes in the theatre, and it's only the lowest ranks that remain scattered where the sunrays never reach. Nothing to worry about, if you ask my brother, who only cares that the witches don't go and kill his insurgent girlfriend, or if you ask Stefan, who of course is only concerned with finding Bonnie and couldn't care less about a bunch of local blood-sucking nobodies."

Translation: they still haven't heard a word from Sophie, and until they do, the rest doesn't matter. So unless Klaus's phone rings unexpectedly, they're allowed to have his fun tonight. Caroline grins, catching Klaus's eyes and nodding meaningfully before knocking down the three remaining shots of tequila and rolling the paper wrap of her burgher into a ball that she tosses playfully at his chest. She drops a couple of twenties and stands up a bit too enthusiastically, watching his eyes as, at last, they fall away from her face as he stares outraged at the offending money on the table.

"Caroline, love, I can't allow you to—"

But she waves her finger in his face, "Ah ah ah," she shushes him. "I'm taking you out, remember? It's burgers and cheap tequila, Klaus—"

He stands up, smoothly pulling out his fancy leather wallet and leaving a hundred dollar bill on the table. He folds her two twenties between his fingers and, as he lightly pushes her so she gets moving, he slips them into the back pocket of her jeans, leaning closer and talking right into her ear. "You said cute boys and free booze, love. I'm your cute boy for tonight, so I will be paying for the cheap tequila shots."

His voice is firm and low, thick as the brick that weighs down on her stomach as she feels his hands tightening on her hips, his lips grazing her cheek. So much for being in charge. She wants to groan out loud in shame and frustration when he pulls away brusquely, moving a step ahead of her and turning around as he says, sounding almost disinterested, "Go hug your ex-boyfriend goodbye. I'll be waiting outside."

It's only when he says it that she notices Matt looking at her from behind the counter with a slightly disturbed expression wrinkling up his lovely face and well, it's not like Caroline can blame him. Blood rushes up her neck, and she feels her cheeks flushing with shame because what kind of _awful_ person is she that she didn't notice Matt till now, that she never even thought that of course Matt would be there, and of course she needed to see him before she left town for good?

She is the absolute _worst_ ex-girlfriend in the world.

At least, because good things always happen to horrible people who don't deserve good things happening to them, Matt doesn't resent her. In fact, as soon as she takes two steps towards the bar, he rushes to her, wrapping his strong arms around her waist and squeezing so tight that, if she wasn't a vampire, it would _hurt_. And how is that for feeling nostalgic about the good old days when she was still alive, and Matt loved her, and she loved him, and for the whole of _five minutes_, life was great?

"It's so good to see you back in one piece, Care."

She returns Matt's hug just as lovingly, but takes care not to squeeze him too tight, and smile as brightly as she can when they pull away. She spares him the awkward explanation she knows he doesn't need, and not just because she's sure Tyler has caught him up in all the details they can share. She's with Klaus, she isn't ashamed of that, and she is leaving town with him. But she doesn't want her last conversation with Matt in a while to be about Klaus, and what it all means, and what she has become and who she isn't anymore—so instead Caroline nods, and keeps on smiling, "It's so great to see you too."

Because it is.

Matt's smile is broad and pure and honest when he sort of states, sort of asks her, no trace of an accusation in his tone, "Tyler said you're leaving soon again?"

Caroline nods, "But I'll be back," she assures him, almost immediately correcting herself, "I'll visit you guys, all the time."

It's how she lets him know, she isn't coming back. Not to stay. Just to visit. She's leaving with Klaus. Who is waiting outside the Grill for her. She can feel it. Can sense him, as weird and freaky as that is, in how the air shifts around her when he's close, even if he isn't in the room any longer. So she quickly hugs Matt again, and insists, "And you can come visit us too, as soon as it's safe. You'll love New Orleans."

Matt nods against Caroline's neck, and she counts to five before stepping back and grinning widely. "Klaus left you seventy dollars as a tip because he's an asshole and that's probably his personal understanding of what being _nice_ is like," she shrugs, like this is just something she does now, apologizing for Klaus's sake on an hourly basis. "He means well in his condescension, I guess. Use it for a welcome-back gift for Bonnie or something."

Klaus's careless disdain for those he considers nothing but _the help_ is hardly his worst fault, and it's one Caroline hopes she can polish up nicely with time. Teach him some _true_ manners that aren't just a dignified aristocratic pose. Of course, Matt, _again_, is simply too nice to be bothered by it. He's had his fair share of time spent with Rebekah, after all, and that can't have been in vain.

So he goes on smiling, and squeezes her forearm tenderly before he starts walking towards the bar again as she turns in the direction of the front door. "Be safe, Care," is the last thing he says to her, and she promises with a nod of her head, not two seconds before she's out in the streets, staring at Klaus across the road and breathing in the bittersweet, familiar scents of her small town, in this strangely warm evening in the early spring.

He's leaning on the closed door of his SUV, smiling gorgeously at her, and the whole scene—the adrenaline rush of the life-changing decision she just made, the exhilarating thrill of anticipation coiling in her stomach, and the promise of _forever_ as it stands right in front of her—is making her feel like she's the star of the epic movie that is her life, _at last_, and not a secondary character in her own story anymore. It's all Klaus, she knows. It's all _him_, and how much he loves her against all odds, against a thousand years worth of impossibilities and unbreakable oaths, that as he was made into a monster t a then monster he would die, on the day that the world stopped turning.

But, _what are the chances_? The world stopped turning and they didn't even notice.

And now, as she mentally waves goodbye one more time, she crosses the road in long, determined strides, biting her cheek so she doesn't grin like a fool and starts running like a child. She deserves a freaking Oscar for how well she keeps it cool, for the eight seconds that it takes her to come to a stop right before him, inches away. Immediately, no time to even think about it, she stands on her toes and grabs at his neck and pulls him down for a mind-blowing, time-stopping kiss like the ones she's replayed a million times over when rewatching _The Notebook_.

His arms close around her waist, and he's pulling her so tightly against him that he needs no supernatural strength to pull her up, turn them around and pinned her to the car as his hands move to grip her hips. His tongue forcefully rolls into her mouth and her hands dig into his hair, tugging at his short curls as her fingernails scrap his scalp. She keeps trying to press herself closer to him, mould into him, as he begins rocking his hips against hers but, ugh, _oh God_, they can't, not here in the middle of Mystic Fall's Main Street, ugh, _please for the love of all—oh_—

He pulls away with a jerk, his forehead coming to rest against hers as he whispers, his breath moist and hot as it tickles down her nose and onto her trembling lips, "I can't believe we have to drive for this."

She lets out a loud, sudden huff of laughter that somewhere along the way morphs into a pain groan. "I'm going to kill Bonnie," she half chuckles, half moans, burying her face in the crook of Klaus's neck and breathing in deeply, once, twice, trying to calm herself down before straightening her spine and walking around the car and getting into the passenger's seat, with as much dignity as she can muster.

He's laughing lowly when he starts the car, unfazed in his deviousness when he asks her, his voice so deep she feels it rumbling out of her own frenzied heart, "The woods, you said?"

Well, the woods are a shorter drive than his house, and her mom is in her house so…

"The Falls," she breathes, chewing her lip and crinkling her eyes coyly.

The falls are romantic, right? The pretence of romance helps her feel a little less naughty for wanted to do it in the wild. It's the stars, she tells herself. It's making love beneath a dark, thick blanket of night-sky and bright white jutted stars, and hopefully having that memory replace all those bad awkward-beyond-belief she has of parking near the Falls all throughout her adolescence with a pitiful.

This time though—

It's a school night so the Falls are deserted, and it's only the sloshing rush of the falling water that keep them company as, hands held tight, she leads him to her favourite secret spot, a darkened crook where the white halo of the waterfall can be seen through the majestic web of trees. Their blood-racing, nerves-throbbing sexed-up mood of only minutes ago fades temporarily as the quiet calmness of the nightly forest engulfs them, and Caroline finds a robust pine tree to sit against, pulling Klaus down with her as he tugs his hand. He circles her waist with his arm, and she rests her back against his chest, falling closer to him as he exhales, and the air empties off his lungs.

Her words are meaningless and unnecessary, but she mutters them into the night anyway. "I will miss this place."

Klaus nods behind her, resting his chin on the top of her head and pulling her closer. "I was born here. Right _here_," he says, also unnecessarily. The original werewolf settlement where he was born was much closer to the falls than the current town of Mystic Falls. They both know, as they both know his thoughts when he adds, his voice a warm caress into her neck, "I was human here."

It's a hot, blood-rushing sort of comfort, the certainty that a thousand years may go by, and she will always be able to come back to this place. That she isn't losing her home, her roots. That if a miniscule human kernel has survived in Klaus's blackened heart over the centuries, that he can now share her wistfulness over his past human days by the falls of Mystic Falls—

—she will not disappear into the darkness to never surface again.

He will never let that happen.

And it's that certainty that has her spinning on her knees in a flash he's too slow to see, to anticipate, to stop before she's pushing him onto the ground and has straddled his hips demandingly, unapologetically dominant. This is _her_ date, isn't it? And she is in control. If she's going away with him, if she's giving herself away, and granting him forever—

—tonight, at least, he is _hers_, to do as she pleases.

And she _pleases_ kissing him raw, forcing him down as she takes advantage of his temporary fragility to battle off each and every of his futile efforts to turn the tables on her, roll her onto her back and have his wicked way with her the way he likes to do. There'll be time for that. There'll be _forever_ for that. Tonight, though, it's her forearms pinning down his shoulders as, one by one, she undoes the buttons of his linen shirt, tracing a trail with her fingers down his chest that her tongue follows carefully, one twirl tasting each crescent drawn by her impatient fingernails.

"Caroline—"

She ignores his grunt of protest, of pleasure, of pain—whatever. She's on a mission. She's sliding down his hard body like a snake, her hips rolling hard yet slowly against him, her palm gliding down the slick sheen of sweat breaking out off his skin to cup him over the ridge of his dark jeans. She strokes him firmly once, twice, three times before, as her blunt teeth bite the taut flesh of his stomach, she unzips him, the metallic sound of the zipper being ripped open washed out by Klaus's insistent groaning, "Caroline, love—"

It's sinfully, unforgivably easy to keep him down one-handed even as she concentrates her efforts on making him forget his weakened position, and the fact that she is taking advantage of it, and the certainty that is running hot-as-burning-coals through her veins that he's going to make her pay for this, with tenfold the torture she is applying as her fingers wrap gently around him, and she explores excruciatingly tentative, the pace of her hand matching the tormenting slow caress of her tongue as she kisses down his stomach, her mouth dipping lower and lower as she picks up speed.

She knows he isn't going to beg. Klaus Mikaelson simply does not beg, and incapacitated or not, Caroline isn't stupid or naïve enough to believe that, if he _truly_ wanted to turn the tables on her, he wouldn't be able to do it just because she's currently faster and stronger than him. There are ways he could distract her. Ways he could play her like a fiddle, and have her forget her own name in a matter of seconds, with a carefully executed fickler of his fingertips.

But he lets her do, and doesn't utter a _please_ she doesn't really need to hear, feeling content with just the echo of the sigh that pours out of his chest. He's no longer fighting her, and she feels satisfied, completed like she hadn't thought possible, just feeling the weight of him against her tongue as she takes him into her mouth. Her eyes close and her lips mould and her hands find his somewhere in the middle of the entangled figure of their bodies- Their fingers entwine. He mouths her name again and again and again, _Caroline Caroline Caroline_, and she is able to hear it because she is dead and has become a monster, even though she has never felt more alive than she does when his hand fists on her curls, and he grabs her so hard, so unafraid of hurting her that she feels the pulse of his blood beating on against fingertips. It's distracting, and _hot_, and it fits the intended purpose seamlessly because before she knows what is happening she's on her back, her eyes glazed and transfixed on the starry night above.

He grants her a wisp of air to gather her surroundings before the world around her disappears, gets swallowed by the deep blue ocean of his eyes as a happy, mischievous grin spreads over his features. He kisses her hard, fast, blunt teeth biting her lips as his dexterous hands get rid of her pants and underwear as fast and smoothly as if he had supernatural speed; he lifts her hips and undresses her from the waist down, and it's rough and desperate but as soon as her naked skin falls upon the bed of mud and fallen leaves, she closes her knees around his denim-clad legs in an iron trap, and effortlessly, she pushes him down, rolling him onto his back and straddling him again.

There are no slow caresses this time. No languid rolls of her hips. She lifts herself over him, guides him in, and lets a deep, loud gasp escape her coarse throat as her eyes widen in shock. The surge of pleasure shooting up her spine is so intense that the tensed muscles of her thighs shudder unexpectedly, and even in the throes of passion the thought of slapping his grin off crosses her mind when he smiles wickedly at her, his large strong hands coming to rest on her hips to steady her and, while he's at it, guide her movements into a deep, slow, perfectly synchronized tempo.

"You're quite the dancer," he jokes, and also doesn't joke, recalling their first dance of a very—and yet _not_—different kind.

Caroline wants to roll her eyes, snap a witty retort, _punch him in the face_ because for heaven's sake, she can't articulate a coherent thought, let alone be witty or snappy, and yet the fact that he remembers, the exact words he said to her, and that _she_ remembers too—that's even more overwhelming that the feeling of him inside her, the musky scent of his body or the slick, soft touch of the skin of his chest against her palms, as she balances herself to trump the guidance of his hands on her hips. He wants her to move slow, if only so that he can assert his dominance, but she keeps on battling him, leaning down and sinking her nails into his neck and pushing, thrusting, rolling—

But he slides his hands to the small of her back, and he angles her body against his _just so_, and it's a matter of seconds of allowing him to rub up against her—that's all it takes for her mind to go blank with pleasure, for her body to freeze, and before she knows what she's doing she's ripped open her radial artery so that he can drink too, while her fangs sink hungrily into his carotid. He yells, strangely, unexpectedly, desperately; but she barely registers the cry reverberating in her eardrums. She's too far gone. She's sucking avidly, madly, letting the rich taste of his hot blood blind her as she comes, hard and violently, devastating pleasure rippling through her trembling muscles until she can take the strain anymore, and collapses on top of him.

It's later, minutes later, as the world's spinning speed decreases, and the vibrant smell of his blood doesn't diminish, that she realizes what she's done.

"You're bleeding."

Frantic, she tries sitting up, but she's boneless still, despite the shock and horror crawling quickly up her skin as she notices the trail of blood pouring down his neck and over his chest. He tugs her closer and pulls her down against his chest again, protesting when she tries to move away. "It's nothing," he assures her, exhaling in what sounds like sheer contentment. "It's healing. Your blood helped."

Caroline swallows a thick, unexpected lump that has formed in her throat. "Do you need more? God, Klaus, I'm so—"

"Shush," he doesn't let her apologize, actually presses his upright finger across her lips to shut her up. "You were amazing, sweetheart. Don't ever apologize for following your instincts."

She's still naked from the waist down. His jeans are still undone. And still, the rumbling tone of his voice and his careful choice of words make it sound even dirtier than it was, darker, somehow. More primal and beastly. And yet—

She smiles languidly, sluggishly worming her way back into her jeans before falling against him again, nesting her head bellow his shoulder. It's too dark for her to see the ink branded on his skin, but from memory she lets her eyes trace the shapeless figures as, inexorably, she falls into a deep, sex-and-blood induced trance.

She doesn't know how long it lasts; how long they just lie there, listening to the noises of the woods, the squirrels gnawing and the tree tops whistling in the wind; the water falling in an endless rush that picks up speed as the frantic beating of their dead hearts slows down to a near stop. It could be just minutes, or it could be hours, as the torn skin of his neck knits itself back together, one skin cell at a time. The blood dries off eventually; the heaving of his chest stops altogether, and for only the Devil knows how long, they lie in peace.

Then, his phone beeps quietly.

For a second or two, neither of them moves a finger.

Until, with a groan that's more about heartbreak than sloth, Caroline digs the phone out of his pocket, slides her thumb over the screen, and shows the message to him without uttering a sound.

It comes directly from Sophie.

Just one word. _Done_, it reads.

And as Klaus's slow breathing hitches beneath her in quick, ready preparation for what's to come, Caroline closes her fists on his still unbuttoned shirt one last time. Dread creeps up her throat as nervous anticipation coils in her guts, because this is it. Bonnie's been found. They're flying back tonight. She doesn't even need to ask—

Intermission is over.

The final act begins now, and it's time to go back to fighting for their lives.

—

**Tbc.**

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**Thanks for reading guys! I hope you liked this chapter even if nothing major happened! That will change soon, by the way, as we go into the final three chapters of this story: magic, battling, and coronation—as a way to summarize. ****Next****: we'll meet Davina, at long last; we'll see her in action as she deals with Klaus and Marcel simultaneously. It's time for torture, blood magic and unbreakable bonds. ;)**


	18. Chapter 18

**Hello guys, thank you so much as always for your continued support of this story. This chapter was a real struggle, and I basically hate every word of it, so basically, it was knowing that there are people out there reading who care about this story that made me pull through when I felt like giving up, so thank you! I'm sorry if it sucks too badly, I hope the last two chapters won't be a complete disaster. I'll do my best so this story doesn't go down in flames.**

**Also, this chapter gets a ****warning**** for a bit of explicit violence and bit of gore, though I'm afraid nothing as cool as the masquerade ;) Please find something in here to enjoy!**

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**Chapter 18**

**.-.**

The streets of the Quarter are strangely empty, unusually quiet; but it isn't hard to figure out why. It's very early in the morning, after all; the pale white sun isn't done rising yet—not completely. The city is in mourning, too. The mayor died in the fire, and isn't that so tragic? Along with so many other members of the community. His closest, most relevant aldermen, they died too. And on top of their tragedy, it's the time of Lent.

It's time for repentance, penitence and self-denial. It's the time of contrition and retribution, for the debauchery and licentiousness and boundless self-indulgence of the Mardi Gras season.

_Pray for us sinners—_

—_now and at the hour of our death_.

The resulting silence of the sackcloth and ashes is, terribly, as deafening as the hustle and bustle of the roaring partying crowd was only a few days ago. It covers it all, falls over the city heavy as a headstone and somehow manages to wash out the low, rushed whispering of Elijah as he leads Klaus and Caroline confidently through the grid of narrow streets, tries to catch them up on the very little that he knows. "It's not so much that the Lanier witch is willing to negotiate," he hastily explains. "Apparently, she has no other option."

The Lanier witch. Negotiate. No other option.

Elijah's scarce words are definitely intriguing, and a tiny bit alarming, yes, but it's hard for Caroline to concentrate on what he's saying, or _not_ saying, right now. It's been like half an hour since the plane landed, and, still, all Caroline can think about is her mom, and how firmly she had stared at Klaus, words hard as steel as she had promised, her voice a low, dangerous hiss, _I don't care how powerful you are, in your little world. If something happens to Caroline…I will find a way to hurt you_.

It's only what Liz Forbes was born and trained to do. Kill vampires. Protect her loved ones from the monsters that are waiting in the dark.

It had felt so _real_, when Klaus drove her to her house so that she could hug her mum goodbye. He had stayed in the doorway the whole time, had only nodded respectfully while Caroline's mom spoke, told him in very unquestionable terms that she didn't like him, that she would _never_ like him; but she trusted Caroline. She loved Caroline more than anything else in the world, more than words could ever tell; and wasn't that, after all, something they both had in common? Klaus had promised with just a handful of carefully selected words that he would always protect her, that no harm would ever come to her—

—and yet they haven't been to Caroline's new home for half an hour, and he's already, _literally _leading her by the hand into the heart of the danger.

And she kinda sorta loves him for that. So she squeezes his fingers in her sweaty clammy palm, reassuring herself of his presence, and still—

—his voice manages to catch her off-guard when he snorts, "Hiding in plain sight, are they?"

Only after he speaks does Caroline realize that they've stopped walking, and are in fact standing, for a second immobile, in front of an old and small shop, a sort of herbalist's, it seems. Caroline narrows her eyes, tries to peek through the closed shutters; but Elijah doesn't waste a second to even acknowledge his brother's comment before he's pushing the wooden, creaking door open, and going inside the tiny, smelly establishment like he's expecting someone to be waiting inside. Klaus follows him without another word, but he rolls his shoulders derisively and catches Caroline's eye in a secret wink before he pulls her inside, dragging her behind him by the hand. Before she goes in, she barely has time to lift her eyes to the street plate in the corner, right over the small shop. _St. Ann St._, it reads.

They truly are in the heart of the French Quarter. _Hiding in plain sight_.

Very much expectedly, in spite of the grimy scenery, Sophie steps from behind the counter as soon as Elijah closes the door behind them. Immediately, Caroline's eyes move away from the floor-to-ceiling ancient-looking, dust-covered shelves, filled to the brim with glass jars and clay pots; dry herbs and powdered substances—to land squarely on Sophie's warm smile. She nods at Caroline in greeting. "I'm glad you could join us," she says, her eyes quickly darting to Elijah before the drags them back to Caroline. "Bonnie will be happy to see you."

Caroline forgets all about the dingy little hole where they are—the four of them, they barely fit in the confined space without bumping shoulders each time they try to breathe—as soon as she hears Bonnie's name. Yes, she knew they were coming here to see Bonnie, that Sophie had found her; but still, her words come out in a violent, messy rush when she asks, moving closer to Sophie, "Where is she? Is she okay?"

Sophie doesn't lose her calm composure at all, in spite of Caroline's frantic questioning, which is all kinds of admirable given the extremely strenuous circumstances. No wonder Elijah likes her, in spite of her obnoxious little vamp-minx costumes. She even softens her smile as she sighs, perfectly relaxed, "Come with me," turning around on her feet to disclose a minuscule apartment, opening behind the bookshelf that stands left to the counter.

A bookshelf in front of a faux wall. A bookshelf that is in fact a hidden door, opened to reveal a narrow spiral staircase, leading down—

—down down _down_, into the bottom of the Earth, looks like from where Caroline is standing.

First goes Sophie, of course, leading the way. She is followed by Elijah. Then, Caroline, and finally Klaus, _really_ close behind her, in the rearguard so he can keep an eye on her at all times.

Sweet.

The descent is long and slow, as it always happens in these cases. The stairs are so steep that, soon enough, Caroline grows dizzied from turning on her axis again and again and again as they walk down at a snail's pace. Her breath comes out rugged, heavy with sudden grogginess, and it echoes cavernously in the cramped space, louder and louder as the concrete of the streets above ground progressively gives way to the gnarled surface of wet, knobby rock.

Caroline can't help herself, deafly growling in frustration the tenth time her foot slips on a slippery step, and, to keep herself from falling, she's caught in the most awkward sandwich _ever_ as she leans on Elijah's shoulders while Klaus's grabs her by the waist firmly, circling his arm around her and yanking her to him possessively. Seriously. _Ugh_. "Are we trying to get to freaking Australia by crossing through the centre of the Earth?"

She feels, rather than hears, the familiar thrumming of Klaus chuckle not an inch from her ear, and immediately, she notices the sound echoing down the stairs until it mixes with Sophie's chortle as she answers patiently and calmly, "We're almost there, Caroline. Don't worry. For over a century, the witches in this city have been using a web of tunnels that goes remarkably deeper than the sewer system, to be able to move and meet undetected by other creatures that have been graced with the advantage of _very_ keen instincts."

Vampires, she means; and werewolves too, maybe.

Caroline doesn't have much time to ponder on the issue, however, as the glowing white halo of light that's coming off Sophie's flash light suddenly runs into a wave of warmer, darker orange light that is seeping out of the entrails of the rock, it seems. From a cave. A bare room that has been painstakingly carved into the primitive stone, and is now lodging three people in its stone-cold guts.

Bonnie—

—Caroline recognizes her immediately, even though she doesn't turn around as their little searching quartet walks down the last steps of the spiral staircase that has led them from the little shop in the corner of St. Ann and into the bowels of a city that is rotting inside out. Bonnie is just standing there, not moving a muscle, her back turned to them and her arms clenched around her stomach, as she watches attentively the other two people in the cave. A young girl holding a large knife in her hand, seized to attack—

_Davina Lanier_.

She doesn't look a day older than fourteen or fifteen, from where Caroline is standing when she takes her first step into the cave. She can't see the girl's face, but honestly she doesn't want to—

She even forgets Bonnie for a second, when she notices that, behind the mask of ruby-red dried blood and the dead-beat grimace of excruciating pain that distorts the face of the man hanging in chains from the ceiling—stands Marcel, the overthrown King of New Orleans. Except he isn't standing at all, but _hanging_ limp and seemingly lifeless, his arms constricted in shackles over his head, his shoulders twisted unnaturally, like his bones have been dislocated out of their sockets, but they're still struggling, supernaturally trying to return to their rightful place against the overpowering strain of the chains that torment him.

Caroline has to fight off the nausea—_welcome home, honey_—when she _hears_ behind her Klaus's silky sweet grin twitching evilly on his lips, as he makes his entrance into the cave, literally rubbing his hands together in excitement as he sing-songs—

—"Well, is this a party or what?"

Bonnie—

Caroline has to repeat her name again, when she realizes that the first time she calls out her friend, no sound actually manages to wriggle out of the tight, painful knot strangling her throat. "Bonnie…"

It works. Bonnie turns around on the spot, and in a flash, Caroline's hugging her, breathing in the familiar scent and easily, too easily ignoring Klaus's exuberant joy at the sight of violence and the smell of blood. She mutters in her friend's ear, "Are you okay?"—

—and Bonnie nods quickly, once, twice, not breaking away as Caroline's eyes, braver than she is, scan the cave over Bonnie's shoulder. It's empty except for a handful of ever burning torches, a small wooden table, wasted and splintered; a three-legged stool, carefully placed in front of Marcel's hanging body. He's dangling from a pulley; his beautiful dark skin now a matted shade of grey, almost translucent beneath the thick icing of dried blood. He looks dead, but he isn't. His eyes shoot open the instant Klaus stands before him, arrogant, dismissal of the young girl on whose way he just placed himself, right in front of Marcel, his turned back inches away from the tip of the knife the witch is wielding.

She's fast though; quick and agile as a hare, moving almost as if with supernatural speed, as soon as Marcel focuses his glazed, panicked eyes and rounds his lips to speak, she's moved to stand behind him. In a second she's on her toes, and a vervained gag is safely knotted between his cracked, wounded lips.

It's been two and a half days of torture for Marcel.

Two and a half days in the hands of a teen witch whose blood he had cursed—whose magic he drained and throttled and controlled since long before she was born.

Caroline's knees buckle shakily when at last Bonnie pulls away, and she understands.

It's been two and a half days of torture for Marcel. In the hands of a little girl, and _Bonnie_.

Klaus is still smiling like a kid in Christmas day, the skin around his eyes crinkling ashe crosses his arms over his chest to look _properly_ at the defeated body of his nemesis. "_Ouch_," he mocks, evilly and endlessly amused. "That must hurt, doesn't it, mate?"

Marcel's body contorts in pain; his black eyes widen, threaten to jump out of their sockets, mad with torment and impotent fury. The skin of his cheeks burns and peels away, and doesn't regenerate only to burn again, because Marcel has been cursed, too. He still can heal, like Klaus; but too slowly. The dislocated bones of his arms still struggle against the yoke of the chains; and the skin cells of his face desperately attempt to sow themselves together, but the acid burn of the vervain is faster. So _much_ faster.

Caroline remembers. She has to shut her eyes to shove away the phantom pain, and, when she opens them—

—she barely catches the sight of Sophie and Elijah sneaking out through the back of the cave, through a narrow entrance into what looks like a narrower tunnel, dug out by a million years of erosion—or five minutes of a particularly strong spell—into the entrails of the mass of rock that supports the weight and humidity of New Orleans.

Where are they—?

Caroline's unvoiced question is interrupted by the deaf knocking of a pestle on a hard-wood mortar. Davina has grabbed it from the table, and is crushing something now, twisting her tiny delicate wrist expertly as she grinds on and continues to ignore Klaus and Caroline as much as Klaus is ignoring her. For a little while, the silence drags on, and Caroline shifts on her feet, growing nervous the thicker the silence grows, until she feels it begin to throttle her chest. It's a dense mixture of their slow, yet superficial breathing, and the irritating noise of the rough ceramic of the pestle grinding against the hard wood, the dry, brittle material inside crumbling and dissolving into powder, mixing wetly with the smashed weeds and seeds in the mortar. Caroline can hear every grain being crushed. She can hear every breath being sucked in through the nose, swallowed in the throat, inflating the lungs.

At last, and after a whole eternity has gone by, Davina turns her head, looks at Bonnie over her tilted shoulder and bends her head disinterestedly. "It's almost ready."

Klaus capitulates, narrowing his gaze as he finally stops examining Marcel, mocking him with his manic grin, to turn around and confront the witches who have humiliated him. Caroline figures, maybe he was just keeping himself distracted by enjoying Marcel's silent, powerless torment to keep himself from uselessly, ridiculously, and feebly trying to choke both witches to death for what they've done to him. But he looks strangely relaxed when he turns around, and softens his smile as he finally locks his gaze on the girl. He even bends his back, stoops before her to emphasize her youth, even though, Caroline guesses, she's barely two years younger than Caroline was on the night she was smothered to death with a pillow.

He beams his honeysuckle grin at the girl and nods meaningfully at the pestle and mortar in her hands. "And what is that that you're cooking, poppet?"

The pet name is deliberate, and it sends a shiver down Caroline's spine that makes her toes curl, her stomach coil and twist with uneasiness. _Voodoo_. That's what the girl is doing.

The girl—

Her smile is terrifying. Because—

She _does_ look like a baby girl when she raises her wide sapphire blue eyes to gaze at Klaus, looking almost awed with innocent wonder and she happily returns his smile before rolling her shoulders and her eyes a bit, as if to say, _oh, it's really nothing_, while her lips draw out the words, confidently, "It's your cure, _duh_."

_Duh_.

Duh.

Caroline doesn't know if she should laugh or cry because _where is the knife she was wielding two minutes ago, from where did she take the vervain gag, has this girl really been torturing a wicked, diabolical vampire for over two days straight_? Who is this girl?

Klaus doesn't react in any way. He doesn't straighten his spine. He doesn't stop smiling. He doesn't stop feigning legitimate curiosity when he asks again, "So you're going to cure me?"

Davina shrugs again, continues to look the endlessly and perfectly bored teenager. Like she honestly couldn't care less. "Bonnie says I have to. I don't want to, though."

He nods slowly, tilts his head, curls his lips mockingly. "Because I'm a bad man?"

Davina shakes her head, eyes still wide and open and honest. Like she believes his question to be an honest one, she simply answers. "No," she shakes her head faster, more determined, as if to reassure him that she is serious as death (she probably is—she's still grinding, as she speaks with Klaus so casually). "Because I don't like vampires, and whatever Bonnie says, I don't think you're better than him."

Her head turns slowly, as she arches her delicate neck to look up at Marcel and the giant mess she's made of him. She doesn't even bother turning her face back to Klaus when he whispers, low and deep, "Oh, sweetie, I'm so much _worse_."

Caroline shudders, a shot of electricity running through her veins. Half shamed, half scared, she turns to catch Bonnie's eyes. She frowns, asks her without words—_what is going on_? Bonnie looks ready to interrupt, explain why Davina has to cure Klaus, why he's the better option, why he cannot be left vulnerable much longer, or Bonnie's friends and loved ones will start falling like flies.

But this is a conversation for just the two of them; two unlikely enemies, the powerless thousand-year-old original hybrid, and the almighty teenage witch, again wielding the knife, blink and you missed it. Her voice doesn't drop and her eyes don't narrow when she threatens, almost chipper, "You do know that I can take you down, right? I might not be able to kill you," she bends her smile, like it really _sucks_ that she can't kill Klaus, "I may not know how to do that _yet_. But I can easily put your friend down and hook you up in those chains. Or I could just leave you weak and powerless, and watch you go a little bit crazier day by day."

Caroline gulps down the knot in her throat, eyes widening as time slows down around her. She sees it happen in slow motion, and she gathers it might be because of her heightened vampire senses, or maybe it's just how humanly _slow_ Klaus moves as he starts at the girl, his curled fingers shaping a choke around her neck that is cut short midway. In less of a breath—Caroline's strangled breath—all the bones of Klaus's hand break with a deaf crack, like chopsticks, all at the same time. His knuckles brutally twist outward, and a strangled cry of pain breaks out of the darkest depths of his throttled chest.

Caroline closes her eyes and tries to shut her ears to his wordless, guttural groaning, the snapping of his bones coming together into place as he forces them straight, one by one while the little girl waits for what they all know it's coming.

Klaus sucks in a deep breath after he's done patching up his hand, and again bends down to look at Davina in the eyes as he hunches his shoulders. His voice drops an octave as he recovers his everlasting smile. "The blood running through your veins is very powerful, little witch, but your magic is bound to the Bennett bloodline forevermore. You're enslaved. You will _always_ be enslaved, but it is not me who has you bound."

Umm… _what_?

This time, Caroline doesn't hold back. Bonnie is lost in her thoughts and Marcel seems to have fallen back into unconsciousness and why the hell is she here in the first place, why the hell is _Bonnie_ here, who is the girl—

"Enough," she hisses, and immediately, the single word earns her an arched eyebrow and a deep frown, as Davina turns on her feet to look at her, mortar and knife still carefully held, with an expression of utter confusion creasing her soft, cute, porcelain face. She opens her mouth to speak, but _talking_, Caroline is faster than anyone. So she quickly adds, "Who are you and why aren't you in school making a diorama? You should be in school. You should drop that knife before you hurt yourself. And you should stop breaking people's bones like they're twigs before someone smacks you upside the face."

Little Davina only frowns deeper. "And _who_ are you again?"

"She's with me."

"She's my friend. You can trust her. Caroline is _good_."

Klaus and Bonnie speak at the same time, and Davina turns her face from one to the other, her cute little nose wrinkling even further. Caroline raises her eyebrows in a display of self-confidence, and knots her fits over her hipbone. "Yeah, I'm with him. And I'm also Bonnie's friend, and I don't like your creepy theatrics. Honestly, I've seen enough of those since I came to this city to last me ten lifetimes."

Davina nods, her frown dissipating beneath the perfectly smooth, perfectly ivory expanse of her forehead. She waves the knife around as she asks, "So you're the reason why I can't kill him."

"Yeah, you don't try—"

Klaus cuts her off by actually moving to step in between her and Davina, his hand swiftly moving to the girl's shoulder as he quickly redirects her attention to him. "No, sweetheart. The reason why you can't kill me is that our dear Bonnie Bennett will not allow you to, so maybe we should stop wasting each other's time here and get on with your magic potion," he says, talking fast, nodding towards the mortar before insisting. "I do have quite the handful of vampires to exterminate, as I'm sure it'll please you to hear."

Davina's smile positively _glows_ for a second before it falls, quivering a bit. "Well, yes, _duh_. But also, _nope_. Because yes, you will get rid of all of Marcel's vampires, fine. But then you will just replace them with your own and—"

"Not really, no," Klaus shrugs. "I've always preferred to surround myself with witches and wolves, as a matter of fact. In my long life I've come to find out that vampires are rather fickle in their loyalties."

"Huh," Davina snorts in disbelief, nodding towards Caroline. "You already brought one with you, not to mention your siblings—"

Klaus interrupts her again. "I'm sure Sophie has put in a nice word for Elijah, hasn't she? Elijah is a nice chap, noble and stuck-up. You'll like him, I'm sure. And Rebekah, she's a sweetheart, has a really big heart." His obviously fake smile is all sunshine and rainbows when he twists his neck to look at Caroline, adoringly. "Caroline's pretty special, too. She wouldn't hurt a fly, and she'll keep me in check, I'm sure…"

His words trail off meaningfully, and before Davina can say a word, Bonnie insists. "Caroline's _good_, Davina. Things will be different now, I promise."

Davina locks her gaze on Bonnie's and for a second she doesn't breathe, she doesn't move a muscle, and she doesn't say a word. Then she walks towards Marcel, and turning her back on them all, she sinks just the tip of the knife right over the purpled skin over his sternum. Unfazed, unshaken, she draws a long cut down his chest and over his stomach, cutting deeper the lower the knife glides. He opens his eyes in response to the pain, two tiny orbs of clotted blood glistening like glass as he tries to scream through the burn of the vervain eating away the flesh of his cheeks. Davina doesn't react. She takes out the knife and moves it to his side, cutting through him horizontally and watching attentively as the skin comes open in the cross at the centre of his chest, right an inch below his heart.

She's cut the way in for her hand to slide in through his ribcage. Pull his heart out. Kill him with her tiny pretty hands.

But she doesn't.

Instead she presses the mortar where the wound is deeper and collects the blood that pours down, tucking the large, dripping-with-blood knife on her belt before grabbing the pestle to go on grinding, weeds and brittle crumbs of _something_, hard and dry, until it dissolves with Marcel's blood, and the scent changes in the cave, the sweet smell of freshly poured blood becoming sour, bitter. Poisonous.

She doesn't turn to look at them when she says, "I'm only fourteen, but I do know that the originals are worse than Marcel. They're more powerful that he can _ever_ be. They're monstrous. If they died…" She goes quiet for a second, like she's truly thinking about it. Then, she sighs, far more regretfully than any fourteen-year-old should have the right to sigh, "Balance would finally be restored."

But she can't do that. Her magic is controlled by Bonnie. Bonnie—like Sophie, like so many others before them, Caroline is sure, and many others that will come after them—are bound to the darkest, deadest side of nature whether they like it or not. Their lives are too entangled with the vampires. Maybe the world is black and white when you're a power-crazed, cruel, ruthless little fourteen-year-old witch. But then you grow up, and you get lost in the infinite shades of grey.

"We will keep the balance," Bonnie assures her, so quietly. We will burn to ashes as many theatres as we must, Caroline translates. We will bend the will of the original family if they forget their place. We will never be in the hands of these dark, dark creatures ever again.

"This city can't continue like it is now. Humans _will_ be set free—"

"_Yes_," Klaus concedes, hissing, stomping his foot on the knobby ground in blatant impatience. "I'm a predator, little pumpkin. This commoditization of the food chain that my mate Marcel's has set up puts me off quite a bit, if I'm being honest. I've seen what it does to the humans, and it's frankly very boring to my tastes. Like going hunting to a farm."

Immediately, unwontedly, Caroline's thoughts fly to Camille, and the taste of her blood pouring down her throat, numbing her senses to the burn of the vervain, clouding her mind until she couldn't think, couldn't see—all she wanted was to just keep drinking until not a drop was left. She remembers the spiked rosé Champagne of the jazz club. The girls on the stage during Marcel's masquerade.

It wasn't like that in Mystic Falls.

It wouldn't be like that in New Orleans.

Once Klaus—

Caroline doesn't have the time to even think about finishing that wishful thought before Davina turns around with a little jump and a little sad, angry laugh, offering the beverage she's done preparing to Klaus as Marcel's groans of pain rise through the charring noise of his burning skin. Like he knows something they don't. Davina ignores him, of course. She sighs again, this time fully looking at them all as she commands, in a barely audible whisper that seems to hurt her through her core— "Drink."

Klaus takes the mortar in his hand, but makes no move to take it to his lips, stretching his forehead questioningly. "Why should I?"

_It's your cure, duh. _That's what she said the first time.

Now she rolls her eyes like she's getting bored. "It's blood magic, haven't you heard? It's the blood of the usurper. The blood of the man who took what once was yours, and stripped you of the power you had over this city. It makes sense that his blood will restore your power, doesn't it?"

"That simple, huh?"

Davina actually _laughs_, sweetly and terrifying. "Of course not, dummy," she _giggles_, for real, just as her beautiful bright smile sharpens like the knife she keeps on her belt. "It's _blood magic_, I already told you. It's never simple, and it's also not something you can or have to understand, so just drink it. .It's only blood and bones and ashes and a bit of datura. Nothing unusual. He's under the same spell that you are, so his undoing will be your cure."

His eyes narrow till their dark, dim navy blue glint disappears beneath the crinkles of his eyelids. "If you dare cross me—"

"I will never be able to practice, again," she finishes, so slowly, so calm, she could be the millenary creature in the room and not just a girl. "I will lose my magic, and I will lose myself."

Her round blue eyes turn to Bonnie, and as they do, she misses the sight of Klaus's taking the mortar to his lips, the reason behind Caroline's loud, choking gasp. But she does turn her face to look at him as he wipes his mouth clean with the back of his hand. His eyes find Caroline as he swallows, and after a breathless second, his mouth curls into a terrible, beautiful smile. She feels the humid, suffocated air inside the cave shift as his power rises, and before she knows what's happening, he's flashed away so fast he's become invisible, and it's only seconds later, when he returns to stand by her side, and she registers the echoes of Marcel's sudden, suffocated cry, that they all notice the gaping wound on Marcel's neck.

Klaus's bite. The last nail in the King's coffin.

Davina gasps loudly, the anger beneath her laboured breathing turning her hissing words to hysterical shouting as she nearly screams, "Why did you do that!?"

Klaus smiles at her unapologetically, shrugging one shoulder. "I'm sorry sweetheart. I know you wanted to kill him yourself after he's been punished accordingly to what he did to you and your friends, but I kind of need him dead by my own hand if I mean to succeed him. I acknowledge, though, that my triumph was only made possibly by your untiring efforts—"

His words are cut short when Davina shuts her eyes tight, lifts her arms extended before her—

—but then—

"Stop."

For a second, Caroline think it's Bonnie who has spoken, trying to prevent Davina from throwing away the delicate agreement that has restored Klaus to his natural state of almost complete invulnerability. But then she realizes, it wasn't Bonnie's voice. Bonnie has moved to grab Davina's hand, soothe her in her anger, but it's Sophie who has spoken.

She's back in the cave, and so is Elijah, and so is a third person. A vampire tied in chains, judging by his bloodshot eyes, and the scribbled purple veins that frame his frenzied gaze. He has funny hair, it's all Caroline notices at first. But then, Elijah drags him to the centre of the cave, Klaus claps his hands, and the man in chains goes positively rabid, his eyes locked in Marcel's contorted body, the mist over his glassy eyes, the bloody cross on his chest, and green, rotting skin that surrounds the mark of Klaus's fangs on his neck.

_Diego_.

Caroline has never seen him before, but she remembers what Camille told her. He loves Marcel. Marcel loves him. But she also remembers what _Klaus_ told her.

—_I __saw __Diego take you, Caroline. I saw him, and I could do nothing. He took you from me, and I did __nothing__ to stop him, I couldn't—though, mind you, I have got a few ideas about what I'll do to him as soon as it's safe to go back_—

_Oh, God_.

"Brother, you brought me a gift!" Klaus grins, moving quickly to stand behind Diego, holding his chin up so he can't look anywhere but at the dying, rotting corpse of the man he loves. He tightens his fingers around Diego's throat, choking him, leaning close to whisper secretively in his ear as his smile only grows broader, merrier. "I have thought of _nothing_ but this moment for the last fifty-six hours, mate."

His eyes are glued to Marcel's horror-struck eyes and it's impossible to know who he's talking to. Caroline guesses he's talking to both of them, and her heart clenches painfully, her stomach twists with dread and nausea, because she literally _can't_ imagine what Klaus is going to do—

"Klaus…" It's Bonnie who warns him, while Elijah and Sophie retreat silently towards the entrance of the cave, as if ready to climb the stairs back up to the surface of the citywithout muttering a word. "All he did, he did for love."

It's a weird thing to say. It's weird to think that Bonnie might care one way or another what happens to Diego, after she mass-murdered almost the entirety of Marcel's inner circle of friends and followers on Mardi Gras. Perhaps, she's only trying to prove to Davina that Klaus can be better, that Klaus is a better alternative—

—but Davina surprises them all, yet again. "No, let him do it," she says. "This is what they deserve."

It's horrifying, that she is so young, so human, and so ruthless. So Caroline tries, because she feels that she needs to, even if she doesn't care. "Klaus," she whispers, pretending to herself that they are alone, and only he can hear her. "He didn't hurt me."

_Just kill him. Rip his heart out. Stake him through the heart. Don't torture him. Don't make him watch_—

But Klaus ignores her, and he ignores Davina. Still holding Diego's chin up, choking him, he turns his face to look closely at Bonnie, like he's truly considering what she just said. _All he did he did for love_. Klaus nods, slowly, his expression wistful as he rasps, his voice oddly strangled. "I know, and isn't that horrible? That cruelty born out of love is so much more terrible, so much more merciless, than cruelty born out of hatred?"

He isn't talking of Diego's love. It's obvious to anyone with ears. He's talking of himself, and what he'll do in revenge, against the man who took Caroline away while Klaus was kneeling on the ground, powerless, weakened, and in pain. The man who had him watch his love being hurt, being _taken_, right in front of him. And he could to _nothing_.

_Oh, God_.

No one says a word as Klaus's eyes return to Marcel. He presses himself against Diego, almost intimately, still standing behind, still forcing Dieg's eyes to search through the excruciating, agonizing pain of the man he loves while he remains chained, immobilized, _powerless_. He whispers one horrifying word at a time. "I will not kill you. You will stay here with me, and you will watch your love rot away, be consumed by pain and maddening hallucinations. Wanna hear something funny, mate? I tried to do that once. Sit and watch my love die from my own bite. I've been alive for a thousand years, and I've never known pain like that. I couldn't stand it, I had to save her. But you will stand it, mate. You will."

As his horrible words seep in, Caroline feels the tears prickling at her eyes. Part of the sorrow that creeps up her throat is the memory of thinking she was going to die because Klaus loved her too much to let her live. Part of it, though, is the mourning angush for the part of her that died when he saved her, the second time. And she knew he loved her much, much more than she could have ever thought, and it was forever, and there was no going back. There was only _this_. Him and her and the rightful torture he imposes on those who have dared ruffled one hair on her head.

Forevermore.

She loves him.

She hates _so much _that she loves him.

Tears cloud her gaze, but she swallows the urge to cry and shuts her eyes tightly to dry them off; and in doing so she almost misses it when Klaus twists his wrist sharply, bending Diego's neck to the point of almost breaking so he can look at him directly in the eye when he speaks again. "You will carry Marcel's body back to the hotel, and you will set up a chapel of rest there, so everyone in this city can pay their respects before we bury him. You will help me find each and every one of the vampires who have survived, and you will help me kill them all, as I have made a promise to the witches. You will stand by my side as I am crowned, so the people, the _humans_ who know you can see you with me and understand that there is a new world order. And only then, I'll let you die."

It's futile, and pathetically painful, but Diego manages to uselessly hold Klaus gaze and breathe out loudly thought his nose, as he answers, clearly and slowly, his tongue pressing hard to the back of his teeth before rolling down—

"_No_."

Klaus's lips draw an indifferent, lopsided smile, and softly, almost gently, he dilates his pupils, whispering. "Yes, mate. You will."

Immediately, Diego's dark chocolate eyes go dead, empty, hazed under the influence of Klaus's compulsion.

Caroline's irregular breathing hitches, clots in her throat, and she hides her eyes away—from Bonnie, from Bonnie most of all—as Marcel's broken, desperate cry of pain and sorrow explodes in the cave, the reverberations echoing loud and haunting through miles of secret tunnels, slipping away through the cracks in the rock, only to come back crashing against the wall, again and again, shattered into a million fragments of paralyzing, bone-chilling agony.

—

**Tbc.**

* * *

**So, as far as I'm concerned, Pretty Little Liars is a better show than Breaking Bad, mostly because I'm obsessed with evil, almighty young girls who can be awesome and delightful and deeply rotten at the same time. I wish I had a better chance to explore Davina because I thought making her self-rightous and absolutely evil would be a lot of fun, and I think I'd love to develop her a bit more in the future, other stories perhaps. We'll see. What did you think, anyway? Was it too choppy? Too messy? Too all over the place?**

**Let's hope the last two chapters are better, shall we? Thanks for reading whether you liked it or not, and I hope you guys can make it through to the end, which is now so close ;) (Also, I'm sorry Caroline was a mere spectator in this chapter, for the most part; but it was what made sense to me –**

– **she'll be getting her hands dirty in the next instalment, though ;))**

**And… thank you again! Thank you forever! :::hugs:::**


	19. Chapter 19

**Hello, guys! I'm sorry this chapter took a bit longer; it wasn't the chapter's fault this time, though. Just real life. The last chapter should be here sooner, I hope. As always, thanks for reading, for following, favoriting, and for being so kind and considerate of dropping a review. I hope you'll like this chapter. It also earns a warning for a bit of gore and violence.**

* * *

**Chapter 19**

**.-.**

It's long past dusk when Klaus and Diego return to _The Howlin' Wolf_. Well, when Klaus returns, and Diego just follows him, blank-eyed, dragged behind by the invisible leash of Klaus's compulsion.

It's sick. It's horrifying, not knowing if the big empty dead chocolate eyes have frozen into matted black stone out of the alienation that results from that familiar kind of mind control, or if it's just the pain inflicted by the demon who locked the collar around poor Diego's neck and forced him to watch his lover rot to death. It's terrible and petrifying. It's exactly as if some perversely cruel version of God or _whoever_ had bound all of Caroline's most tangible fears together, wrapped them up in pretty shiny cellophane, and offered them to her as a _congratulations_ gift.

_This is the fate you have brought onto yourself. This is the deal with the Devil that you have mindfully signed. Are you satisfied?_

It's—

—bull crap.

Because at the end of the day, it's actually _a lot_ more horrifying the fact that she doesn't quiver in terror in the face of the horror, because as soon as Klaus confidently points in the direction of an empty stool next to the bar for Diego to sit on, the questions start coming on the spot, sort of distractedly, and yet fully intended for every vampire in the room to hear—

"Why did you take Caroline?"

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the real fucked-up part.

That Caroline understands. That Caroline fears and Caroline hates and this is _war_ and she isn't going to lose. Not while Klaus—

His voice, as usual, comes out steady, firm and dictatorial; yet strangely calm for what's expected of his rather choleric temperament. Diego's voice, however, pours out of his mouth as dull and dead as it glistens, glassy, the lost look in his dark eyes. "We were supposed to take all of them," he explains, hypnotized. "We knew that the story you were telling wasn't true, but we didn't know you cared for the girl. Marcel knew you very well, he said you were incapable of love. We would have gone straight for her if we had even suspected..."

Caroline doesn't even have to look their way to picture the cutting sharp grin splitting up Klaus's face. She'd rather not see the violence contained in Klaus's angelic face right now. He and Diego are sitting at the farthest end of the bar, after all; a safe enough distance from the small table where Caroline is talking it over with Bonnie and Elena, the three of them metaphorically dusting their hands with lime in preparation for the fight that they all know is coming. Which in truth means, _really_, opening up their hearts and prying them up with curious, this side of judgemental fingers to try and get themselves to feel a tiny bit better about the different kinds of horror each of their lives have become over such a short period of time.

Who cares what Klaus and Diego are talking about, anyway? Who cares what Klaus is doing to Diego? This is _war_, and she kind of always knew. The only thing that matters if that Marcel's vampires are coming and she'd better wrap her fingers about any of their hearts before their filthy murderous hands find their way into her chest cavity. Or else—

_At least_, and isn't that so great, talking to Bonnie and Elena is a bit of a catharsis, and isn't that so great? That she has her friends to counter-effect the oddly familiar rush of warmth that spreads through her chest when Klaus catches her eye for a fleeting heartbeat, in between here and there, does she look his way or doesn't she? He asks Diego again, words brisk and clear-cut and matter-of-fact, "Take all of them, you say. And what was the plan for me?" —and immediately the warmth sloshing through Caroline's runs cold as a winter snowstorm and solidifies into a heavy solid rock of ice and dirt weighing down on her chest.

_What was the plan for Klaus_? She remembers what Elijah said. The rite performed by Marcel's krewe each Mardi Gras, at the end of their secret-cult merry dance of death. Killing the king—but never their own.

It's not that Caroline is deliberately trying to excuse herself from the conversation she was having only moments ago, about the details and particulars of how and why Abby Bennett had contacted Davina; how she had informed Bonnie of what was going on—and how Bonnie had made her move to liberate the witches but also keep them reined-in so all her creature friends would be safe and sound. How she had found the spell to neutralize Klaus and force him to negotiate. How she had ensured Caroline's safety, and Elena's, and Abby's—and every other vampire Bonnie had grown to know and care about since they all started spiralling down in the vortex of destruction that are the Salvatore brothers, the doppelganger, and the entire supernatural history of the little town in Virginia that saw them born and raised. Caroline wants to _know_ all about that; she's desperate to hear Bonnie's version of the story, but—

—as soon as Klaus starts speaking, Caroline grows hyperaware; and almost without even looking she notices Camille's hands trembling unusually as she pours two shots of Bourbon for him and Diego. She hears the swallow rhythm of Klaus's breathing without listening to it. She feels the air shift in the room, and her stomach clenches, and it's not that she doesn't try, but she can't stop thinking—

_What was the plan for Klaus_?

Diego's answer comes without a struggle, again; his voice deaf and toneless. "Plain old desiccating spell," he says, and Caroline, as she swallows down a gasp, can almost _hear_ him shrug disinterestedly. "Marcel wanted to be the one holding your dead black heart in his balled fist until you turned to stone right in front of him. He was going to bring you down. It was his fate."

He doesn't sound sad. He doesn't sound hurting. He sounds empty, and the words slip out as if off a cave carved in the rock; already echoing as they fall down into the abyss. And it's so easy for Caroline to imagine, her own voice dull and lifeless like Diego's as he speaks. Because he sees the words, and Caroline sees it happening. Klaus turning to stone. Right in the middle of the dance floor. There in the Varieties Theatre, in front of the whole city, and in front of the tableau of death where the piles of death girls were flanking the dead vampire woman half submerged in a bathtub of blood. The statue of what Klaus had once been would have marked the culmination of Marcel's theatre of death. And what a climax for the Mardi Gras party, wasn't it? But perhaps… Sophie's enchanted gems, would they have protected Klaus from the magic of the witches that Marcel still controlled? And Elijah and Rebekah….

_Plain old desiccating spell_.

Isn't that the oldest trick in the book? Abby Bennett desiccated the original hunter once, not that very long ago. Abby Bennett—who was aware of the plight endured by the witches of New Orleans. Abby Bennett, who had been plotting in the shadows all along. Isn't that ironic? Perhaps she had even sensed that her magnum opus was cooking in the stove, when she sent her daughter with very specific instructions to bind her magic to the Lanier girl, and channel it through her own to lift the curse. Thwart Marcel's plans to kill his rival king.

_Plain old desiccating spell_.

The _truly _ironic part, the _really_ horrifying part—is that it may have worked, after all. In spite of Sophie's charms of rubies and amethysts. Even though there were three originals in the ball room. Oh, haven't they learned anything at all? Don't you know—haven't you heard about that time that a group of overly-enthusiastic high-schoolers in Mystic Falls managed to desiccate the original hybrid?

Those were most certainly the days.

The lines were clearly drawn and Caroline wasn't okay with desperately wanting the biggest, baddest monster of them all—even as he tortures and torments in front of her very young, very eager babydoll eyes.

And _hey, _it might be the sad, tiny little smile of incredulity curling up her lips, or perhaps it's the gasp that hitches halfway out of her lungs when she thinks, again and again, _plain old desiccating spell_. Maybe, it's the way her fingers curl around the neck of her beer until her blood rushes away from her hand to pound in her head, painting her knuckles an ashen shade of white. Who knows? But whatever it is the reveals her uneasiness gives her away to her friends, and perhaps misguided by the beguiling trick of her merely human ears, Bonnie's quizzical gaze follows the path trailed by Caroline's slippery eyes to settle on Klaus. She asks with soft gentle words but a loud heavy sigh—

"Are you sure?" Bonnie's pretty brow crinkles cutely, as her lips unsurprisingly curl into a genuine smile, a glint in her teeth of half-hearted sympathy and understanding. "I mean, I don't presume that I understand, but, you don't have to make this choice _now_, Care. You know that, don't you?"

And _oh_, doesn't she know?

She barely even flinches. You see, she knew this was coming. She's been giving herself this kind of shit for the longest, after all; so it's not like Bonnie or Elena can think or say anything as awful or ill-intended as the sort of accusations that Caroline has been throwing at herself since the beginning of this story, so often pictured as coming from the lips of her two loving best friends, Bonnie Bennett, the witch who sets theatres on fire—and it's _run you fools_, run for your lives, it's every man for himself in this literal hell as the world is burn down to ashes—and Elena Gilbert, the young innocent big-hearted vampire torn between the love of two bad _bad_ brothers: the I-have-the-best-intentions semi-good guy with the psychopathic, mass-murdering alter-ego, and the selfish I-murder-and-abuse-because-it's-fun gigantic jackass. So yeah, cast the first stone and all, but still Caroline feared and anticipated their judgement.

She used to depend so much on what others thought of her, when she was still alive—you don't understand.

Only it's different now, she figures. Because she simply nods—_are you sure_?—and makes no apologies. She takes the beer to her lips and rolls her shoulders nonchalantly, and _what_? It isn't that big a deal. She doesn't even offer _one _little tiny word of explanation, and well, she very much doubts that her friends, if they are her friends, are expecting one at all.

Suspicion confirmed when (thank God, because Caroline doesn't really want to talk about this) Bonnie smiles candidly at her, warmly, and nods her head. "Good." She grabs Caroline's hand over the table, and squeezes tightly. "This town could use someone like you."

And it's not like Caroline _wants_ to give up the fight, lower her guard—

—but she's chipper and optimistic by nature, _sue her_; so her face kind of shatters into a happy smile. In spite of all the terrible anxieties that are still grasping her lungs and _crushing_, because regardless of how influential she will be—_she'll keep me in check, I'm sure_, he said, but she does not delude herself in thinking of the q-word—_someone like you_ means that, well—don't be so surprised, will you? She wasn't lost in the fire after all, so she's calling this whole thing a victory.

Isn't _that_ all she could ever hope for?

"And what about… _him_?" Elena's conversational tone startles Caroline a bit, perhaps out of the unexpectedness of a change in the topic of conversation, so sudden, to more _gossipy_ girly matters. But it comes as a comfort, old and familiar, and so still smiling Caroline turns to look at Elena, almost not in time to catch her nodding in the direction of a newly established dartboard, where Tyler and Hayley are chatting animatedly while throwing darts. Elena sharpens her tongue as she raises an eyebrow, tilting his head suspiciously. "What's happening _there_?"

Caroline wants to roll her eyes because _ugh_, while they wait, can they talk about anything else in the world but _Hayley_? She doesn't want to say—she doesn't want to sound childish or insecure or even this side of spiteful but still, her voice drops without asking for her permission, falls to the ground so fast and heavy that, Caroline knows, vampire hearing or not, no one outside their table can hear it when she hisses, ten times angrier than she actually feels, "She slept with Klaus."

And _yes_, maybe she was a tiny bit desperate to get that out of her chest. To tell her friends. So they can be outraged and pissed off on her behalf without making her feel any less dignified for it, because Caroline has some class, and she won't be dragged down to feel _jealous_ of Hayley, of all people, for going to bed with Klaus. But that doesn't mean that she can't use her very best friends in the whole world to hate the little wolf girl vicariously, and wish her all the horrible things she knows Bonnie and Elena will wish for Hayley, the second both their heads snap so violently that Caroline can hear the bones in their necks cracking a bit as they raise their eyebrows in perfect synchrony, indignant and positively disgusted. It's Bonnie who asks, logically if you ask Caroline, "What? _Why_?"

_Exactly_, Caroline nods, crunching her face in repugnance as she simulates a shudder in the middle of a fake indifferent shrug. "Some creepy dominant alpha werewolf crap reason," she rushes, her fingers once again closing tightly around the beer as she pulls it to her mouth, her lips closing around the top as her fingers grit against the glass, eyes closed as she pushes those images away, not for the first time. "I don't know, and I don't really want to know. I suppose whatever freaky wolfish made Klaus go momentarily gross and tasteless is not that different from whatever's actually going on there," she nods, mirroring Elena's gesture as she wordlessly points in the direction of Tyler and Hayley. She's about to throw her third dart, and Tyler's hand is comfortably, familiarly pressed to her hip. "So whatever. We're _all_ trying to move on and forget it ever happened."

Elena frowns, her lips pressed in a tight grimace of evident disgust. "So they're together now? After what Hayley did to the hybrids?"

Caroline doesn't answer immediately. Her eyes remain fixed on Tyler's hand, tightly pressed against Hayley's skinny jeans, the darts for a second or two forgotten in the dartboard after she's done throwing. _Are they together_? Well, who knows? Tyler hasn't said a word to Caroline, but Caroline hasn't gone to him, either, to officially communicate that she is with Klaus now. He knows, and deep down, Caroline knows too. _After what Hayley did to the hybrids_? Funny wording. It was Klaus, though; he killed the hybrids. It was Tyler who convinced them to break the sire bond. It was Tyler who threatened them into submission. So they would follow him as their alpha—in his mission to be rid of Klaus. It'd be awfully convenient to believe none of it would have happened if Hayley hadn't said this or done that; if Tyler hadn't listened to her, hadn't wanted to be the man Hayley told him he could be, after she set him free in the Appalachians.

Hayley sold out the hybrids. She lied to Tyler. She manipulated him. She backstabbed him and exposed him to Klaus's wrath knowing full well what she was doing, and who she was playing with. She knew that Klaus would kill those twelve hybrids without breaking a sweat. That he'd massacre them in a blink. She needed them dead, because Shane had told her—

"Not that I have any intention of defending Hayley…" Hayley is selfish. She's disloyal. She's a lone wolf who has learned to survive in the wild by not giving a crap about anyone but herself. She takes care of herself. She loves herself. She looks out for herself. And there is nothing to admire in that way of living, as far as Caroline cares; but _oh_, of course someone like Klaus would sympathize, and what does it says of Caroline, that she loves _him_, in spite of everything? Well— "… but she plotted to get the hybrids killed so she could have her parents back, and we did kill one of them without thinking to protect you, Elena, didn't we?"

Chris. His name was Chris. They killed him. Caroline went as far as agreeing to go on a date with Klaus so he handed Chris over like a pair of worn-out shoes. And they _dare_ judge—

Elena looks down, tucks her chin in her chest while Bonnie sighs but holds her head up high, proud of the stains of blood that soil her hands—_all_ their hands. Caroline smiles sadly, almost timidly as she shrugs, catching Bonnie's warm eyes when she adds, her voice a whiff of breath, "I think what Hayley did, _why_ she did it—I think Tyler can forgive her. I think he can empathize."

He's an orphan too.

What wouldn't he do to have his mother back?

It was Klaus's revenge—

It was the final repercussion of the chain of horrors that Hayley set in motion, but who could have guessed—who could have imagined, even if they all _knew_.

"So Tyler is staying too?"

It's a bit of a pointless question, but an understandable one, so Caroline nods quickly, and secures the small smile on her lips before it rolls down and falls onto the dirty, rotting planks of wood beneath their feet. It shakes violently when Elena frowns, poignantly dumb, "But Tyler hates Klaus."

It's impossible to hold back the chortle that jumps out of Caroline's throat, more merry than bitter as it morphs into an almost warm little laugh. "Yeah," she shakes her head, both hands closing around her empty beer as she begins to spin it, slide it over the wet table from one cupped hand to the other. She doesn't look up as she thinks out loud, "Don't we all?"

Tyler is an orphan who never truly belonged in their little happy group back home. He was always different. Always kind of in the outside looking in, despite his wealth and status and popularity. Never truly loved. Yet never comfortable in his loneliness.

Wolves are pack animals, and Tyler has every reason in the world to hate Klaus, yeah—but so does Caroline, doesn't she? So does Hayley, Caroline is sure. She hated Klaus's guts last time Caroline heard, before she found out about their little icky tryst. And so does his entire freaking family of deranged original monsters. And still—

"There's something that Tyler said to me, right after we came here," she remembers, the smile more comfortable as at last it sits peacefully over her mouth, and the words slip out almost without her noticing. "He said that the reason why Klaus has managed to bend the world to his every whim for a thousand years is that you can only resist him for so long."

There's a tall shadow blocking out the dim, reddish lights of the bar for a second, and immediately, Caroline's pulled out of her own thoughts by the warm soft chuckle of Camille, as she bends over to pick up the empty beers and replace them with three glasses of soda. "Isn't that the truth?"

Caroline's wistful grin doesn't even tremble as she looks up, one eyebrow raised quizzically as she nods towards the pg-rated beverages. "Are you babysitting us?" she jokes, heartedly, quickly looking at Bonnie and Elena before she adds, "This is my friend Elena. Bonnie, I assume you met at Klaus's party, didn't you? Elena, this is Camille's. She's Klaus's friend."

If they find it as weird as Caroline thought at first, that Klaus is _friends_ with a human bartender, no hitch in their smiles reveals a thing, before Camille waves at them before shrugging casually as she addresses Caroline's just-kidding question. "Even I can hear the war drums thundering closer. Better keep it sober, don't you think?"

Camille's usually sparkling smile is soft and caring, but it oddly fails to reach her eyes. It's a combination of factors, Caroline guesses, that go from losing Marcel, her friend, and the man who ordered and sustained the only world Camille had ever known—to the preoccupation for the supernatural battle that's coming to its culmination, and how helpless poor _human_ Camille must feel, Caroline can't imagine. So she only nods, attempting to understand, and automatically, on pure instincts, her hand reaches out to grab Camille's forearm, keep her from walking away as her fingers close—gently, she makes sure—not two inches from the soft flesh her fangs pierced only a couple days ago, the last time Caroline saw her. The time she almost killed her. How it must be for Camille, she wonders, to pour now a mindless shot of bourbon for the man who compelled her to feed Caroline, make sure she was okay, even if it meant that Camille would die to complete the task assigned.

"Hey," she calls, the shaking breath that drags out her voice moulding as tender as Caroline can make it, "How are you? I'm so sorry for what happened—"

"It's okay," Camille interrupts her, the tray on her hand quaking a bit before she straightens her back, squares her shoulders, and solidifies her glowing smile. "I'm okay. I went to the chapel before, said my goodbyes. I understand this is what needed to happen, and I know what's coming. I'm okay. I'm glad I got to know Marcel. He changed my world, and marked my life forever."

Yeah, well—

Dumbfounded as every time Camille speaks of how she feels, about Marcel and Klaus and the monsters she deliberate chooses to surround herself with, Caroline can do little but nod again, still pretending she understands something she barely even glimpses. She tries to think of something to say, something a little less tattered and empty than _I'm sorry_, again. Something that rings true. Something heartfelt and casual, and didn't Klaus said right after she landed, the first time Caroline saw him, that Camille could help her get enrolled in Tulane—

The front door of _The Howlin' Wolf_ is kicked out of the hinged with a deaf _crack_, but it reverberates loud as it flies over the small set of steps that lead down into Klaus's public, lousy den, propelled by the supernatural strength of a vampire Caroline has never seen before.

The silence that follows is thick and moist and heavy with the odour of bourbon and anticipation, and it seems to stretch out for minutes in which no one inside the half-empty bar says a word or moves a muscle. How did Caroline get so immersed in her truncated conversation with Camille that she didn't hear them coming? Why didn't she notice that Klaus and Diego had both stood up, and so had all the wolves that were carefully positioned, strategically, all around the bar? Damon and Stefan are there too, guarded, standing by the counter not far from Klaus, waiting for the _dong_ they all know is coming—

Klaus's signature smirk twitches lopsided as he claps his hands together, eyeing the intruder from head to toe with an impossible air of arrogant disdain. "Come to ransom your prince consort, mate? I'd say you and whatever leftovers remain of your army can die fighting honourably for the king that you have lost, or as my good friend Diego has done, you can choose to live with me and serve by my side, but—"

The narrow door that opens to the spiral staircase through which, that first morning, Elijah led Caroline to see Klaus and make the deal that has sealed her fate forever, opens with a quiet screech, and immediately three people walk out. Sophie, the stolen surrogate Queen piece that Elijah took away from Marcel's side of the chessboard right as the game was getting started—the queen that was meant to rule as regent until Davina came of age. After Sophie, Rebekah walks out. After Rebekah, Elijah.

What chance do Marcel's pitiful leftover vampires have against the original family, and those fools that have been tricked into fighting by their side?

Klaus's dramatic flare rises ceremoniously as the pause in his harangue sprawls out for what seems like hours, his eyes never moving one inch from the brave reckless creature who has dared kick down the door to his establishment. But at long last, he concludes, "—the truth is, I'm not giving you a choice. You are all going to die tonight. And don't you worry if you never got the chance to say your goodbyes, because," he smirks, savagely, cruelly, "as I said, mate, _all of you_ will die tonight."

There's a freezing cold burn that shoots through Caroline's bone marrow, chilling her entire body; and there's a colder thought still—

_Don't they all hate him_?

Don't they all have every reason in the world to loathe this monster, this despicable evil filthy creature that can crush them all in the palm of his hand if the wind whistles to the wrong tune?

And yet… here they are standing. Look at them. _Just_ look at them. Fighting his war for him. Making sure that the whole wide world continues to bend to his every desire, the way they all do.

Except the tall dark shadow drawn beneath the bare, hollowed-out doorframe. He flashes out and disappears, vanishes into the night in a wave of the hot, humid breeze that seeps in from the darkened streets outside. And immediately, as chairs squeal in pain when their flimsy legs are dragged violently across the wooden floor, the battling drums go silent, and a different sort or racket rises, Caroline quickly stands up, her hand again closing around Camille's forearm as she hastily asks, "Is there anywhere you can go?" Is there anywhere you can _hide_? "Some place that you'll be safe?"

She thinks she's being so protective, so strong—but Camille smiles unfazed, quickly grabbing Caroline's hand and stretching out her fingers to slip inside a charm. "Sophie gave me this for you. Wear it around your neck," she instructs, the smile still strangely enamelled, a bit sad, but forever persevering as she closes Caroline's fingers around the amulet. "Don't worry about me. I'll be upstairs. It's well protected."

It's a locket, Caroline notices, as she watches Camille rushing up the spiral staircase out of the corner of her eye. There's something inside—it looks like a feather, wrapped around a tiny ivory stone, a chip of human bone, Caroline would bet, if she had the time to stop and think about it. There's a gem right where the locket closes, a ruby—Sophie loves stones, and somehow, knowing that little detail, manages to boost Caroline's confidence. There are people she can trust, all around her. She remembers the flames running away from her in fear, the night of Mardi Gras—and she smiles, in spite of everything, as she catches Klaus's intent gaze on her just as she draws the beaded necklace around her throat.

Slowly, carefully, holding her eyes in his with a long, delicate caress, he nods, and she nods back, quickly crossing the room with firm strides to get to where he is standing, waiting for her.

They walk out into the streets together, right side by side.

It all happens very fast.

It's a war between vampires, for the most part. Bodies flash and shadows speed up as they appear out of the darkness, and before Caroline can process what is happening, all she can see is the dark yellow light of the streetlamps, falling matted over the cobblestones of the alley where her dancing leads her to. It's a shaded hue of golden, similar, Caroline can't help but notice, to the deadly glimmer of his wolf eyes. It is thick as a fog, the yellow light that falls from the first floor height of the houses that surround her, stretching out and rubbing against the walls, squirming into the corners, so she can see where others are blind, and she can run, chase the black quick shadows until they grow flesh and bone, and she can tear apart their limbs, peel their skin, and crush their hearts into her white, little-doll hand.

It's a darkest yellow that the wolfish pelt that blankets his skin. He's beautiful, she barely has time to glimpse—lighter than the other wolf that surges the streets of New Orleans by his side, perhaps always one step behind, but running across narrow winding streets just as fast, and ripping out throats just as enthusiastically. Only two wolves thrashing and devouring, peeling off the skin of their enemies in stripes as they tear out body parts like they're rags—

—and the vampires quickly follow, Caroline one more among them, sticking out the hearts from the corresponding chest cavities that just lie there afterwards, ripped open and hollowed-out.

The other wolves—the poor things, stumbling on two legs as the moon wanes inexorably somewhere at the other side of the wannabe skyscrapers uptown—move with the discipline of the army that they are. There are no adventurous sprinters. Every man is a soldier. Diego, too. It's not a night for heroes, after all-the battle was long won before it even begun. So the hybrids rip apart and the vampires follow their lead. The wolves move in the rearguard, stake in hand, stake in the belt, stake in the boot. They fall upon the weak and injured and finish them off.

It's a massacre, but there are no innocent casualties.

It might have been hours, or just ten minutes—but soon enough, as far as Caroline can appreciate from within the stormy cloud of her adrenaline rush, bodies start piling up at both sides of Jackson Square like trash and dirty after a raucous party. It is only then that the flames come.

Fire catches later, when the few daring humans who knowing as they know, the War of Succession taking place, have not vacated the Quarter before, scurry now like gnawing rats sliding inside the bars and shops and houses, unusually closed for the night—for the week, perhaps. Their rushing scared steps echo through the night, beneath the muffled pants of the dying, and the yelling of the injured. Shutters snap closed, with a crack so similar to the bones that break outside, rhythmically like in the drumming songs of the marching bands that flanked the Mardi Gras Parades, only—what, three days ago?

New Orleans smells like sweat and blood and rotting entrails, spilled out on the concrete. Nothing new under the sun.

Until the flames come.

The sour scent of sulphur rises like a billow of dirty yellow smoke. There is no match—no match is needed to light a fire these days, is it? There is no wick. The wick is the rapidly condensed humidity that has pooled in the cracks that separate the cobblestones, and through the cracks the fire propagates, turning the dead bodies—both inert and still twitching with the last throes of undead life—into heaps of ashes, wiping clean the battleground. Witches morphing water into fire—what else is new?

Well—

The sight of Klaus always in the corner of Caroline's eye, fighting, butchering, devouring. The constant thought even as she fights and kills, that he has lived through a million battles, and a billion more are coming, that she will now fight by his side. For he has lived and massacred thought a million battles, but—

—listen _carefully_, here resides the tragedy—

—_so has she_.

(They come for her. Don't you understand? You have to understand. Elijah and Rebekah crush them like bugs, powdered into ashes, but they come for _her_. So what else can she do?)

Caroline knows that he is watching—he is _always_ watching—so, really, what else can she do? The way she knows he likes it, she lets instincts take over, and she can almost see her pure big beautiful heart being coloured a porous shade of black, as her cold dead blood rushes out of its frantic valves and taints the porcelain white skin over her cheekbones, fangs dropped, red eyes—

_She wouldn't hurt a fly_, he said—

And it _hurts_. Underneath the hands that kill, as she ducks and swings, blow after blow, it _hurts_. She has no claws but her little brittle fingers are strong enough to tear apart the flesh from the bone, and aren't all these vampires older than her? Aren't they stronger? Aren't they supposed to move faster?

The Voodoo charm of protection is searing hot against the clammy, sweaty skin beneath her top, but she barely feels the burn, spinning on her feet, ducking again, launching herself over a fallen one, throat torn open and discarded over his chest by the careless jaws of a wolf—and Caroline doesn't think about it, even if it _hurts_. She sticks her hand inside his chest, she grabs the warm, gummy heart, and on pure instincts she squeezes, once, twice before twisting her wrist and dislodging it for the web of strings that keep it enchained to every corner of the massacred vampire.

They were already dead anyway, weren't they?

Aren't they _all_?

The piled up, ripped apart, burnt down bodies are just dead soldiers, fallen in combat. Dead for a cause. This is their fate. They are monsters and, turns out—hello, who's surprised?—it's kill or be killed in this dark side of the moon they live in. And guess what?

Caroline doesn't want to die.

Not that Klaus is ever going to allow that to happen—

_You will never die_, he promised her once, before he fucked her against the wall of her room and bared his neck to the wanton bite of her fangs.

_You will never die_—

A young girl jumps and knocks her over, pins her to the pavement, battles each kick and punch that Caroline throws, nails crawling and fingers tugging and teeth biting as she grunts, spits out blood—

—but the burning charm chars the skin over her heart, keeps it well guarded.

The girl gets momentarily distracted, as the locket burns a hole right through her palm, and smiling in triumphal satisfaction, because _she isn't going to die_, Caroline buries her hand deep, twists her wrist, _pulls_.

The wolf comes out flying from her right, out of nowhere. A flash of thick golden pelt, a loud growl, and the claws tear the heartless girl away from Caroline. The jaws lock relentless around the throat, pulling, thrashing, tearing the young girl in two.

For a second, after Klaus is done, Caroline just lies there on the pavement, the dim city lights blurring over her head, the black beat-less heart clutched unforgivably inside her fist. She breathes in deeply as the battle rages on, more subdued as it comes closer to its ending; and Caroline tries, before arching her back and jumping on her feet again, to settle down the mad pulsing of her blood for just an instant of relief.

**—**

**tbc.**

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**Guys, guys! One chapter left! :D **

**I know, I know – where is the KC goodness? I know there's been little to no KC action in these last two action-packed chapters, but that's because I needed to close down the plot of the story. The last chapter will be **_**all**_** about KC, I promise. Also, was that Caroline empathizing with Hayley? Am I deliberately trying to get all my readers to hate me? Nope—but Hayley/Tyler was sort of hanging in there, and I needed to address it, and given that this chapter ends with Caroline ripping out hearts like it's her job, and, you know, after 100k of having her struggle to come to terms with the fact that she **_**wants**_** Klaus, then I sort of needed our dead lovely Caroline to stop clinging so desperately to the moral high ground. Hopefully, that's what's been achieved by this little contrived story. I'm sorry if you thought it was off-character, but I think—and I've always thought—that it was the only possible final destination this story could reach, if Klaus and Caroline were going to end up together in a canon-complaint scenario that could happen within the timeframe contained in the show(s). So… I hope you liked? Something? Anything?**

**Thanks for reading as always! All throughout this story – you all have been so kind and supportive! I'll see you soon, I promise, and we'll finally say goodbye to this story. I can't wait. I do have a new one planned already, so I'll be back pestering you all soon enough. Have I said thank you already? ;) Thank you! Thank you!**


	20. Chapter 20

**Here it is, guys, the last chapter of _Mardi Gras_.**

**There'll be a longer note at the end but, right now, just let me say that I'm very grateful to those of you who, while I was posting this story, were kind enough to leave me a comment, either here or on tumblr; and to those that, even at this very late stage, think that this fic is worth favoriting and following. Thank you! **

**Please enjoy this final chapter.**

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**Chapter 20**

**.-.**

She blinks back the exhausted tears, clutches her eyes shut and concentrates on the slosh of the running water slopping on the ceramic tiles of the shower. The rhythm is hypnotic. It's a good thing that she's a vampire and she can't feel too hot, because the thick foggy steam of the scalding water is mixing with the slick sweat of her shock, and the heat is almost as heavy and chokingly warm as they hard caress of Klaus's large hands, sprawled flat on her back as he rinses the blood off her skin.

It must be a first for him, Caroline imagines. This strange way of giving comfort, not saying a word—he does love his loquacity, after all. Just staring at the reddish, bloodstained water disappearing as it twirls down the drain. But he does it like a pro, unusual as the task may be. Hey, it's not like bloodied hands are a rarity in around here, right? It's not even the first time that Caroline has washed her hands clean, but _God_, she doesn't remember this _much_ blood from the other times.

It's kind of like magic, of the very twisted and perverse kind she has been getting familiar with since she came to New Orleans. Watching the dry blood flakes, of a dark matted brown, melt away like chocolate over her skin, the dull ochre colour growing brighter, redder for a second before the water is dyed pink, and Caroline's spotless white skin begins to recover its usual ivory shade. Except for the little detail of her own flushing blood, heating up right underneath her pores, smearing her pale skin with blotches of blush Klaus keeps rubbing away beneath the insistent pads of his fingers.

He nuzzles her neck, draws the heavy damp locks of her hair over the hollow of her shoulder to bare her throat to his mouth, so he can quietly and easily press his open lips against her hot, slippery skin. His hands settle flat over her hipbones, trembling, strangely strained; like he's resisting the urge to just wrap them around her waist so he can safely snare her flush against him. Instead, his fingers barely add the slightest bit of pressure as he kisses her neck, softly, languidly, before he whispers almost inaudibly, "You okay, love?"

She nods instinctively, refusing to stop and truly think about her answer. _Is she okay_? Why wouldn't she be? She's alive. The adrenaline of the battle has worn off and now she's trembling and weakened after the strain, but that's to be expected, isn't it? She's still here, she's with him, and this is where she is staying—this is where she needs to be. She is certain of that.

So—of course—the prickling in the back of her throat eases off the second the grip of his almighty fingers on her hips tightens considerably, and in a flash he's spun her around, cradled her impossibly gently against the wall of the shower, and is kissing her deeply and thoroughly, deftly untying the knot of anguish curled in the back of her tongue, that was before resisting her surrender.

She kisses him back after a cut-up breath, just as deeply, just as tenderly. She lets her exerted arms fall heavily over his shoulders, pushing him closer in a lazy, unhurried embrace that has her melting boneless against him. He remains solid as a rock beneath her weight; strong and unbreakable. He lifts her effortlessly, sliding his mouth off her lips to press a comforting kiss to the valley of her neck as he scoops her up against his chest. Turning off the faucet with his free hand, he steps out of the shower stall and carries her to the adjacent room without saying a word, without hesitating. He lays her on the bed so carefully—it would unfathomable, if she didn't know him the way she knows him, making sense of the rare, welcoming gentleness of his monster's hands. But Caroline knows all sides of him, against all odds; so she shyly returns his enthralled smile when he sits by her side on the bed, the mattress shifting beneath his weight. His hand falls heavy on her shoulder, warm and tender; it slides down her arm, his thumb barely grazing the swell of her breast in perfect timing with the curve of his smile, growing steeper the braver, the more daring the caress of his fingers across her skin.

She's exhausted after the fight, but also desperate for him to lie on top of her and just, _please_, kiss her again. She wants to sit up, reach out, grab him and push him down, but after the running, the killing, the striking—after the burning hot shower and the lazy caresses of his hands, she feels like she weighs a ton, like she's made of stone and can't move an inch, despite the superhuman strength and light speed of her vampire muscles. Right now she feels almost... _human_, and isn't that something? She feels dog-tired and impossibly _alive_, more and _more_ alive the faster the shock wears off, the heavier and most insistent the strokes of his hands all over her body.

Somehow, almost miraculously it feels, she manages to gather up the strength to raise her arm and settle it almost roughly against his shoulder. Her smile spreads sluggishly. "Come here."

He obeys like a well-trained lap dog, finally taking pity on her and leaning forward, catching her lips in his as he lies down on top of her. Her legs part to accommodate him in the drowsy embrace of her arms and, for a while, they just kiss. They kiss and kiss and kiss until her mind goes blank, until they grow tired of kissing, and huskily, Caroline struggles to find her voice again. "What happens now?"

Klaus's smirk is positively devilish. "_Now_?" He doesn't say another word. He lifts her leg and wraps it around his waist, pushing himself closer against her.

Laughing, a tired, quiet, broken merry laughter, Caroline manages to roll her eyes at him before she kisses him quickly one more time. She insists, for some reason, "Tomorrow."

Klaus downright ignores her. He scoots even closer, leaning on his knees for a moment to manoeuvre her more easily, scooping her other leg in the crook of his arm and smiling seductively, squaring his shoulder and taking a deep breath before moving closer once again, positioning himself. Honestly, Caroline can't figure out from which magical source of supernatural energy he draws the strength of mind and body to be anything but lazy and sloppy in his movements. He's practised and precise and skilful as ever. And meanwhile all Caroline can do is chuckle softly in the back of her throat, and move her arms almost spasmodically, batting at him indolently as she tries to hug him close when she feels him sliding inside her, pushing and drawing back as once again his mouth finds her pulse point and latches on.

He doesn't bite, of course. He kisses and licks and nibbles, in perfect synchrony with the firm and steady movements of his hips, beating to the same rhythm as the slothful drumming of her heart. All too quickly, she feels the pressure inside her chest grow almost painfully just as warm, liquid, aching pleasure pools down in her belly. Her mind grows foggy; her vision blurs. She's mildly aware of her own fatigue, of her clumsy movements as she attempts to arch herself closer to him, to buck her hips faster. She's too weak, too drained. She knows exactly what she needs without the conscious thought ever shaping in her mind, just the way that he knows too They're instinctual creatures, after all—always living in a permanent state of 'fight or flight' stress.

When was the last time she ate?

His laugh is deep and warm as velvet as it slips down the clammy, still wet skin over her collarbone. It sends a hot, burning shiver down her spine, coiling like flames when she feels the trail of his tongue winding towards her shoulder. He stretches his neck almost awkwardly to bare the slow, alluring beating of his carotid to the pull of her ravenous gums.

His whisper is so low, so gentle, that she doesn't hear it as much as she feels it crawling like a feather-light caress over her sensitive skin.

"Have at it, sweetheart."

The high of his rich warm blood dashing down her throat is only comparable to the overpowering feeling of his body pressed tight against hers, surrounding her, buried in her—creeping into her entrails and into her heart and into her very soul, rotting it inside out with his tainted, corrupted love that sends her flying up over the clouds, sends her diving deep into the darkest hell, and drags her back to earth in a rush of blood and spit and sweat and _love_. Because his blood rushing in her veins gives her strength, speed, clarity of mind. It makes her move just as fast, push just as hard. And it could be hours or it could be seconds, but it's the warm, irresistible pull of his skin sliding against her, the draw of his powerful hands pressing her closer, harder, faster—it's the thought of him and his eternity, and how he's pulled her back from the shock and the violence and the paralysis, that makes her realize how hard and cruelly she loves him, inexorably and without remedy, for as long as the world will go on turning.

It's her last semi-conscious thought before she falls apart, comes unglued and loses all traces of awareness until the bright yellow sunlight of the southern late morning begins to prickle against her eyelids.

She has no trouble ignoring the morning when it comes.

She's a vampire—and even after a long night of fighting, killing, running and love-making, she remains hyperaware; his blood hasn't still washed off her bloodstream. So her heightened senses have no problem to register the golden radiance of the morning sun beating against the huge windows of the master bedroom, falling like torrential rain over the boundless greenspace that extends behind the Mikaelsons' plantation house. She doesn't even need to open her eyes to realize that she is alone in Klaus's bed. It's very late in the morning, after all, and he has a new kingdom he has to set in order and wrap around his finger. The flatness of the mattress over his side of the bed is evident even if Caroline doesn't stretch her arms as far as they can reach, chasing away the last remnants of her very, _very_ pleasant sleep. The absence of his warmth by her side weighs down uncomfortably in her chest but, being quite honest, it's a bit hard to care that she's alone in bed, that Klaus has more important business to attend to this morning—

—when the loud, frantic, crazy knocking on the door just will _not_ stop.

It proves to be the hardest morning inconvenience to ignore.

Rebekah's tireless, annoying-beyond-belief _pounding_ on the door. Her screeching, forever-irritating voice calling out Caroline's name, again and again and again and _again_.

Groaning loudly in frustration, Caroline sits up on the bed. Bad idea, clearly. Rebekah has no trouble hearing Caroline's wordless irritation through the closed door and, who could have guessed? It must really annoy her, Caroline's annoyance, because without even granting her a second to draw the sheet over her very naked chest, Rebekah just barges in inside the room without a hint of an apology, the deference shown as she attempted to wake up Caroline from the other side of the _closed _door suddenly forgotten in the blink of an eye.

"Rebekah! What the _hell_?"

Rebekah very much and very gracefully ignores Caroline's outraged protests, standing in front of the king-sized bed with balled fists on her hips and a deep frown marring her impeccable forehead. She doesn't even try to avert her eyes from the obviously naked Caroline-shaped silhouette the morning sunlight is drawing underneath the white linen sheets, instead looking down at her with a firm, almost threatening expression of repugnance. She doesn't look very impressed with Caroline's furious, frenzied attempts to cover herself and sit up on Klaus's bed, dressed in a sheet, with as much dignity as she can muster.

"You're good at party-planning, aren't you?" It's supposed to be a compliment, Caroline imagines—a soft placating lead-up into asking her for a favour. Instead, coming from Rebekah's pressed-tight lips, the words sound _exactly_ like an insult. Rebekah even blows a stray lock of hair off her face in a blatant gesture of exasperation. "We're throwing a ball this evening, and you have to help me set it all up."

They're throwing a ball? This evening?

The shock and puzzlement—how the hell is she supposed to help a clearly belligerent Rebekah organize a ball in, what, five hours?—must be evident in Caroline's face, because she doesn't have to say a word before Rebekah shakes her head in irritation, huffing as she reluctantly explains, "Nik doesn't want certain people in the city to grow restless by prolonging the interregnum more than it's strictly necessary."

More than it's strictly necessary. The interregnum. Hello? Caroline wraps the sheet a bit tighter around herself as she moves towards the edge of the bed. "Marcel died _yesterday_. They haven't buried him yet."

Okay, he didn't just _die_. He was sort of ruthlessly and cruelly murdered by Klaus after being tortured for two days straight by Davina, the batshit crazy teenage witch. But still. It only happened _yesterday_. He's still in his hotel, grey and rotten and surrounded by wreaths of flowers in his chapel of rest. Honestly, Caroline doesn't know if they're going to burn him or bury him or what, but she knows the funeral is tomorrow, so why the hell are they throwing a ball _tonight_? These people and their balls, really.

"Well, that is Nik for you. He never passes the chance to show off, but don't worry, you'll get used to it soon enough." Rebekah is _obviously_ in a mood, so Caroline just lets her rant and tries to ignore the venom in her words and doesn't try to make matters worse by being dragged into the mud and sharpening her nails to strike back. Not even when turning her back on Caroline in a blatant sign of derision, after not even a half-assed _good morning_, and hey, didn't these aristocratic people have manners?—Rebekah goes and aims straight for the throat. "If you insist on staying, at least make yourself of use, will you? And wear some proper clothes while you're at it, if that's not too much to ask."

_Little evil blood she-devil_—

Caroline closes her eyes, fists her hands on the sheet she has wrapped around herself and pushes herself to stand on her feet elegantly and with grace. She doesn't even acknowledge Rebekah's barely concealed insult as she forces herself to smile pleasantly at the back of her head. She does mutely mouth the word _bitch_, though—but she has the class to have her insult remain silent and undetected. Rebekah, however, never one to disappoint, turns her head towards Caroline one last time as she grabs the doorknob of the door she shamelessly left open when she barged inside the room.

"We'll be _eagerly_ expecting you and your cheerful bubbly personality downstairs, you know, to get this party going," she smiles, a sickeningly and very obviously dishonestly sweet grin. "Don't be rude and make us wait too long."

Really, what Caroline wouldn't give to have a high-heel shoe at hand that she could throw at the back of Rebekah's head right now. She does not delude herself into thinking that Rebekah wouldn't duck the blow, intercept the shoe and quite possibly—just to irk her because she is evil and annoying like that—throw it back at Caroline, but well, what about the immediate satisfaction of having _something_ to throw at her?

Ugggh.

"Good morning to you too," she hisses, low and poisonously, half a second before Rebekah slams the door on her way out without another word.

What the—?

What the hell ever happened to _I'm not trying to be hurtful_? Yes, Rebekah is a spoiled bratty princess that's probably not the happiest person in the world at the thought of being stuck with Caroline of all people forevermore, but come _on_. She isn't here to steal away her brother's love, or anyone's attention, but she is _here_ and she is staying. Can they at least get along? They weren't doing _that_ bad, were they? Yes, Rebekah is not the kindest or nicest vampire to ever live but, as she scurries across the in-between parlour to get to the guest room where she still keeps her clothes and most of her belongings, Caroline can't help but fume and wonder and just be annoyed. Rebekah just woke her up with below-zero delicacy, basically insulted her for no reason whatsoever in ten-to-fifteen different ways, and started bossing around like she's her handmaid or something. Seriously, what is wrong with her?

Turns out, that question does not remain unanswered for too long.

For the rest of the very, very busy day, Rebekah doesn't stop complaining, bitching and moaning for a second. She complains that because of her brothers' arrangement with the witches, they can't just compel a couple dozens locals to set up the stage for the jazz band, hang the lights on the trees, prepare the canapés or steal away the two million candles that apparently are _absolutely_ needed to create the perfect atmosphere for a secret coronation ceremony. She complains that they have to make do with the pathetic volunteers that are trying to get on her brothers' good graces by lending a useless helping hand. She complains that there are no vampires left in town except Caroline's merry happy band of entitled peasant friends, and they have to rely on Elena and the Salvatores every time they need someone to run at the speed of light to bring this or fetch that. She complains that Klaus's werewolves _smell_, and crinkles her nose at the stench every time she has to (ironically) bark an order at them. And yes, maybe this last qualm actually steals a complicit evil chuckle out of Caroline, but after Klaus and Elijah finally show up, three hours past noon but thankfully bringing refreshments, it becomes obvious that Rebekah's foul mood runs a bit deeper than just being annoyed because she has to handle all the party-planning inconveniences.

Klaus leaves the house not five minutes after he drops by, apparently just to check that everything is in order and to pick up Tyler and bring him with him to wherever he and Elijah are going once they up and disappear again. Caroline, naïve as she sometimes can be, actually asks Rebekah, who barely even shrugs in contempt. _Nik has some politicians to compel_, she says. Elijah's still caught up in the witchy business, terminating the details of the negotiations Klaus can't be bothered with before tonight. Of course, the witches will be the guests of honour in the ball that the new King is throwing for the best and most selected of his court.

If it bothers Rebekah, that her big brothers are out in the city handling business, and she continues to be treated like a baby girl who can't handle anything larger than party-planning, it doesn't show. It would bother Caroline, and she has no plans to be staying at home much in the future, thank you very much; but she doesn't even think of bringing up that particular issue as soon as she realizes what is actually wrong with Rebekah. It's not like Rebekah seems to care a lick about business or peace treaties or political strategies, anyway. No—

—what is bothering Rebekah is something a lot more basic, and, not strangely for anyone who has actually met her, something a lot more _human_ than the matters of a war between species that, as far as Caroline can guess, has been going on one way or another for as long as Rebekah can remember. Longer, even.

Just as the loving and losing routine that she always finds herself falling into, no matter how hard, how _desperately_ she tries to avoid it time and time again.

Caroline doesn't even have to ask, but she asks anyway. "Stefan is leaving, isn't him?"

He hasn't told her. After Damon and Elena showed up, Caroline has hardly even seen Stefan at all. He's usually just there, at the other side of the room, but more often than not he's engrossed in a conversation with his brother. As he is right now. Caroline and Rebekah are finishing off replacing the broken bulbs in the billion paper lanterns that decorate every single tree in the whole of the lake area. Bonnie and Elena are helping half a dozen waiters set up the bar and cocktail zone. At the other end of the lawn where an improvised patio has been set to serve as the dance floor, Stefan and Damon are helping the band get the sound system ready, conspicuously close enough to the loudspeakers that, as the musicians test out the amplifiers, the reverberating murmurs of their secret conversation are conveniently washed out.

Rebekah's eyes keep straying every couple of seconds towards them. She doesn't even turn to look at Caroline as she grunts, "What do you care?"

Well, she _cares_. Stefan is her friend, hasn't Rebekah gotten the memo? She's about to point it out to her, that Stefan is as much Caroline's business as he is Rebekah's, if not more—but she holds herself back just in time to realize that adding to the hostilities is only going to make things worse for all of them, and they do need to be done with all the party preparations in half an hour if they want to have enough time to dress properly. Gloriously, as it befits a coronation. Not that Caroline has ever attended a coronation, or even seen one anywhere outside of a Disney movie. Isn't that funny, by the way? That she's getting to live a scene off a fairy-tale hanging from the arm of the Devil incarnate? And it isn't even the first time. Huh.

"He needs time, he says. He has to be sure, he says. It's too son, he says."

Almost dropping the paper lantern that Rebekah shoves at her in the middle of her rant, Caroline has to shake herself back into the present moment. The afternoon is running late. They're finishing off the party preparations for a white-tie ball. Rebekah is half pissed off and half heartbroken because Stefan is leaving her, and now that Caroline is stuck with her for the rest of eternity, Rebekah's moods have somehow become her problem, too. Didn't she always want a sister? Well, you know what they say about being careful with what you wish for. But what else can she do? She sighs, forcing out her natural empathy as she secures the lantern on the string hanging from the lowest branch of the oak tree. She really doesn't feel like climbing trees today.

"He has to be sure?"

Somehow, she manages to sound genuinely sympathetic. It's not like Caroline has ever truly understood—or thought too much—about Stefan's strange relationship with Rebekah. As far as she is concerned, it is dangerous for Stefan's peace of mind and a real hazard if they're trying to keep him from falling off the wagon again. But that is in _theory_. In truth, being around Rebekah usually has Stefan looking a lot more relaxed and a lot less broody than he usually is, trapped in the heavy mists of his guilty conscience in Mystic Falls. But hey, if he wants to go back home—

—Caroline isn't one hundred percent sure that she isn't a tiny bit jealous of the fact that Stefan can actually walk out.

He came down to New Orleans for the Mardi Gras festivities, didn't he? And wasn't that the plan for Caroline too? Well—not really, no. Her plan might have been to stay for Mardi Gras, but that was never _Klaus_'s plan, and Klaus's plans have a way of trumping other people's intents. She is staying here with him. She was always going to be staying, even if for a while there she thought that she wouldn't—she thought that she could keep on putting it off indefinitely. Being with him. The way every inch of her body wants to be with him. Always and Forever.

It's different for Stefan, of course. For him, now it's time to go back home. Go back to his real life, where he doesn't get to indulge in every pleasure and every vice, hand in hand with the blonde bombshell original vampire that once upon a time stole his heart away, almost a hundred years ago, back when he couldn't even guess that he had a heart at all.

Well, maybe one day, not too far along in the future—

Rebekah waits until the last paper lantern is levelly hanging and lightened beautifully to answer to Caroline's unnecessary question.

"He says it's too soon, that if he's going to make the decision of being with me again, of _truly_ being with me…" Her words trail off and vanish into a sigh.

Caroline has little doubts about the thoughts that are running through Rebekah's head. She's no stranger to insecurities, after all. She's no stranger to feeling like she'll never be good enough, she'll always come in second best. If Stefan is going to truly be with Rebekah, he has to be sure that he's making the choice for the right reasons. Not out of spite or heartbreak, because there is another girl he loves who has trashed his heart and stomped all over it. Caroline understands, and Rebekah does, too; but she still scoffs, even as she straightens her spine and pulls her muscle tight, beginning to walk in the direction of the house, prompting Caroline to follow her.

Rebekah only speaks again as they're about the cross the threshold, her voice a quiet murmur. "He says he owes me that. Being sure, and being honest, and I—"

"He'll be back."

Caroline doesn't know what hidden spring in her chest propels her to reassure Rebekah, but as soon as the words are out, she realizes that she actually means what she's said. She has no idea where the certainty is coming from, but she _knows_. Stefan will be back. Stefan will move on, and he'll find himself, and he will be back. And meanwhile—

"There's a ball gown on my brother's bed," Rebekah sighs, at last, for the first time today genuinely smiling. It's a pretty sight, and it pulls at Caroline's heartstrings, unexpectedly. It might be the talk of _gowns_, and how ridiculously, giddily excited she gets when she remembers, the last gown Klaus gave her as a gift, that first night in Mystic Falls. About the black-and-crimson gothic-wedding dress she wore for the masquerade, she'd rather not even think. She doesn't really want to spoil her own excitement, or the bright, surprising smile curling happily on Rebekah's lips as she shakes her head, narrows her eyes almost secretively before she turns to walk in the direction of her wing. "I have no idea what mighty queen he stole it from, but don't let him get away with it."

The mean-girl comment is conspiratorial and sisterly, and no matter how badly Rebekah annoys her at times, suddenly, Caroline finds herself feeling immensely grateful of the fact that, no matter what, Rebekah will _always_ be there. She has a friend. Okay, maybe a frenemy. Obviously, it's far too soon to think of Rebekah as a sister, even if that is exactly what she is. The Mikaelsons are very serious and very tight about matters of family, and the way that life turns out sometimes, well—

It is Caroline, of all the people they have met over a thousand years, that has been chosen to become one of them. It'll be little girly Caroline Forbes of Mystic Falls, Virginia, nineteen years on this earth and only alive for seventeen of them, who will be standing on the balcony tonight, the King's strong arm drawn loosely around her waist.

And what a princess gown she will be wearing!

It takes her an hour and a half to curl her hair in perfect ringlets and get herself inside the magnificent dazzling gown, but _oh_,when she does—

"You are the most splendid queen that I have ever seen, love."

On the mirror, she catches the devious glint shining in his deep blue eyes and fights the flush beneath her cheek, quickly letting go of the hold of his gaze to roll her eyes facetiously. "More splendid that the one you stole this from? I'm sure the bloodstains were a bitch to rinse off, right?"

She _has_ to be dismissive. She _has_ to look away from his burning stare, piercing a hole through her chest over the mirror. She _has_ to focus on the spine-tingling feel of the silk brushing against the palms of her hands as she smoothes down the luxurious fabric over her hips, making sure that the full skirt carries no wrinkles and she looks pitch perfect. Otherwise, she is going to start crying because she doesn't know if she is a queen, but she certainly looks like one, and _look _at him on the mirror, he is—

"That's an exclusive Vintage Dior I had sent over by a friend in Paris before we left town. I assure you, sweetheart, no one has worn it before, and no one but you will ever wear it." His voice bends oddly, and he almost sounds _offended_. "Do you honestly think I'd give you a _stolen_ dress?"

Her eyes shoot up to the mirror in shock, her neck almost straining as her shoulders jerk up. Is he being serious right now? Yeah, luxury and exclusivity and sumptuousness should not surprise her at this point, or, you know, the fact that Klaus does have impeccable taste in gifts, gowns and, obviously, girlfriends—but deep down Caroline's still a small-town girl that only left her tiny hometown like five seconds ago, so give her a break. An exclusive Vintage Dior brought from Paris just for her and hey, remember that time she thought winning the Miss Mystic pageant would be as good as it'd ever get for her? It is certainly as good as it ever gets in Mystic Falls, but she's not in Kansas anymore. Look at her now. Out in the world. Dressed like the Queen of New Orleans.

The rush of vertigo is so overwhelming that for a second, she think she would have much preferred the tale of a seduced and murdered queen—her ripped open heart bleeding lustfully over the glorious gown Caroline is wearing tonight. Sometimes—and who would have ever thought?—dealing with the monster is a bit easier than dealing with the man that still lives and breathes underneath. The man insists on forcing her to love him too openly, too recklessly, and honestly, she'd prefer it if it was the nameless mighty queen's bleeding heart being torn apart in this story rather than her own, you know?

But what does _he_ care that sometimes it hurts, these tentative first steps into loving a monster for the whole of eternity?

Klaus just rolls his shoulders indifferently and smiles a bit too smugly at the obvious shock and admiration in her expression, smirking so happy with himself. "There is however a very similar one in the permanent collection of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. Maybe we can make a stop there, if you want. I was thinking of starting with the most relevant museums in Europe for obvious reasons, but New York City can certainly be arranged."

He settles his hands confidently on her hips the way he usually does, standing behind her like he has been there forever—her shadow, since the day she was born. A shadow that she lost and only now has found, like in Peter Pan. That happened in Peter Pan, right? Like the never growing up part. This monsters-crammed city might be just the city of New Orleans, Louisiana, but it could just as well be their Neverland. Or any other dreamland Caroline can think of as she tries to make sense of what he is saying. It's so hard to concentrate, though. The gown is so shiny and pretty. Wasn't Dior who said that fashion comes from a dream? The wasp waist, the glittering overskirt of scallop-shaped petals and the tight resplendent bodice, embellished with nacreous beads and crystals and pearls, a million different hues of silver. The foggy grey silk and tulle. She wants to spin and spin and spin and dance all night—until she literally drops off her feet, the way he promised her once. What is he even saying about New York?

Oh, right.

She does spin on her feet, the full tulle skirt gliding and flowing around her as she grabs onto the lapels of his tailcoat. Tonight, it is strict white tie—like that first night they danced together, a thousand years ago, it seems. On the outside, it is just a formal ball. A typical old-school Mikaelson ball. The coronation is only what the ball will signify—of course, there is no throne, no crown and no sceptre. Those are the kind of empty, cheap, typical Mardi Gras theatrics that Marcel had enjoyed. The originals are actual blue blood. They don't need empty vain ceremonies. They can very easily just waltz the world into submission.

Which makes it all the better, that Caroline's had proper training in manners of social etiquette. Which is really not what she's trying to focus on right now. The ball. His family. His power. The directly-out-of-a-museum gown she is wearing tonight.

New York.

She smiles a bright smile but also tries to sound nonchalant when she asks, "Are we going to New York?"

He rolls his shoulders again, his hands settling on her waist one more time as he draws her a little bit closer. "If you want to," he drawls, his smile growing warmer, less self-pleased and more enchanted. "I do remember offering my services as a tourist guide, didn't I? In case there were any places you wished to see for your classes."

Her classes. Right. Her _classes_. She's kinda sorta starting a major in Art History, isn't she? Or she was, back in Whitmore College. Does she even want to—?

Klaus speaks again before she even has the time to finish her thought. "I assumed you'd be continuing your studies here in Tulane," he says, sounding almost disinterested, yet smiling kind of mischievously. "Of course, you can do as you please, love. I just thought that, were you still interested in art history, we could do a little trip, for your summer break. You know, a museum trip—for the sake of your academic progress, of course."

Caroline nods, her eyes blinking and her lips twitching on the verge of a serious freak-out episode. She darts her foggy gaze back and forth, from the slow, deliberate movement of his lips around the words to the amused, drop-dead gorgeous glimmer in his eyes. What is he even saying? A museum trip? For the summer? She nods again, her smile kind of faltering a bit in puzzled shock. He draws her even closer, dropping a playful kiss on the tip of her nose when she doesn't say a word. "Any preferences? Besides New York, that is."

Her eyes widen in sudden realization, as shock begins to wear off and she starts to really visualize what he is saying. A museum trip across the world? They're _really_ going to be late to the party if she starts listing her endless list of preferences, but hey, it's his own fault for asking, isn't it? Her face splits into a huge, loud smile and, bouncing on her feet a little, she spins around again, facing the mirror on the wall and picking a set of glittering hair pins from the chest of drawers in front of her. She can speak and do her hair at the same time, can't she?

"So you're taking me to any museum in the world? As many as I want?" She ensnares his smile in hers on the mirror, and he nods. This time, she's the one rolling her shoulders in pretend disinterest. "Well, then we have to start in Russia, don't we? Saint Petersburg. The Hermitage. You have a painting there, don't you?"

She hasn't forgotten, and it clearly pleases him, given how his smile widens as he too walks across the room to grab the cufflinks from the nightstand. Silver, in the shame shade of her gown. Dressed exquisitely in white tie, ancient and magnificent as time itself—what a pitiful werewolf he makes. He's pure refinement and sophistication tonight. A vampire artist with a painting in the Hermitage, who a few lifetimes ago probably lived with Catherine the Great in the Winter Palace as a consigliore.

And look at him now—

—spellbound as he catches Caroline's smile on the mirror one more time. His whisper is, as always, a warm, enticing caress sliding over skin. "And then?"

After Russia? Caroline's smile grows so big that her cheeks start hurting. "We should move westward across Europe." That makes sense, doesn't it? It's been just little over a semester but she's always enjoyed art. She knows where her favourite paintings and pieces are exhibited. "Vienna, Florence, Paris, Madrid." Those they'll have to see. For the sake of her academic progress, of course. But also—"We should also stop at Berlin and London, and you did promise to take me to Rome, so—"

His laughter is deep and low and warm as once again he comes to stand right behind her. "Isn't summer break just eight weeks long, love? You do know you're going to live forever, right?"

Lifting her eyes to his, she shrugs, falling back against him a little bit, allowing his strong hands to catch her and hold her just close enough not to ruffle too much the silk petals of her overskirt. "It's just the museums," she teases, but narrows her eyes meaningfully, fully aware of what she is actually saying. "I mean, I'm majoring in Art History, aren't I? And I'm with you. I'm sharing eternity with a really old _millenary_ artist, so I better graduate the top of my class."

There's a brief second of heavy silence. There's a tiny moment, right after she says, _sharing eternity_, when his breath hitches ruggedly, coarsely, tangles up in a knot in his throat that he gulps down slowly, his eyes never moving an inch from hers in the mirror, not letting go of their hold on her honest open gaze for even a hint of a second while the feeling settles. The moment passes eventually, of course. When it does, he smiles deviously once again and moves his hands off her waist to take a couple of steps backwards, his hand running teasingly down the skin of her inner arm to grab her hand and pull her towards the bedroom door. "You're all work and no fun, love."

There are a million different meanings to the seductive tone of his voice. There are a million different promises. There are a million different reasons why Caroline will not back down, and actually raises an alluring eyebrow as she lets him drag her outside the room, closer to the jazzy melody seeping in from the garden where everyone is waiting for them.

"Oh, we're going to have _plenty_ of fun, Klaus."

It's a promise of her own. A promise he accepts with a heartfelt chuckle and a quick tug of his hand, pushing her closer so they can walk down the stairs in perfect tandem. It's staged and ceremonious and just the necessary amounts of artificial, but when he kisses her cheek before stepping out into the patio, he murmurs hotly in her ear that he can't wait for the party to be over. Can't wait to start having all the fun that she has promised.

The smile is glued to her lips for the remainder of the night.

Yes, there are people he has to talk to and schemes he must design. There are witches he dances with, very much to their horror and Sophie's ill-intended amusement. There is Diego, never too far behind, talking to the same men that Klaus is talking with. Very important humans, Rebekah tells Caroline, in between glasses of rosé, blood-spiked Champagne and melancholic dances with Stefan. Very important humans who know Diego and have dealt with him for years. They need to see him by Klaus's side before he is allowed to die.

"I almost feel sorry for him."

Sophie's voice comes out oddly hard, full of sharp edges and harsh undertones because what Klaus is doing to Diego is heartless and inhuman—it's the darkest shade of Klaus in action, in front of everyone to see. So no one is ever mistaken into underestimating what he is capable of. It's all the horrible parts that Caroline wanted to see so he wouldn't just charm her into staying with him and forgetting who he is, with Vintage Dior gowns embellished with a thousand gems and museum trips across the world. It makes her feel strangely grateful, unexpectedly steady on her feet; this permanent certainty that she knows who he is—what he is and the things he does, and still has chosen to seal her fate to his. Forever.

But Sophie—

"But then I remember what Marcel did to us, and how for decades men like Diego stood by his side, using and abusing the witches like they _possessed_ them. Like they were just things—"

Sophie is wearing a beautiful evening gown, black as the night. She looks perfect and polished and gorgeous, standing by Elijah's side. Her dark brown eyes sparkle with wrath and magic, almost as brightly as the scintillating rubies she wears as earrings. Caroline suddenly remembers—

"Thank you for the charm." The eyes of everyone in their little gathering turn immediately towards her. Elijah and Rebekah are frowning at the abrupt, clumsy change of topic they believe she's introducing, but Sophie, after a second of momentary confusion, smiles warmly at her. It might not have been Caroline's intention to change the subject or to distract everyone from thinking of Diego and the punishment inflicted by Klaus—but at least it works with Sophie.

"You're welcome." Her smile is genuine and affectionate, absolutely infectious. "I owe you, Caroline. What your friend Bonnie has done for us, I don't think we can ever repay—."

Caroline cuts her off, waiving her flute of Champagne in the air so swiftly that Elijah actually jumps a little. "We all owe Bonnie a great deal, believe me. She's saved all our lives more times than I can count."

Klaus's life included. Yes, Klaus's life actually equates to _all_ their lives, but this is actually the second time that Bonnie saves him from an eternity of desiccation and starvation in the bottom of the ocean. Or worse.

Rebekah actually groans. "Yes, Caroline. You are wonderful. All your friends are wonderful—"

"Rebekah, please be nice—"

Sophie has zero to no problems ignoring the bickering of Elijah and Rebekah. She's still focused on Caroline, still smiling warmly. "You're good," she says—and what a strange reassurance that is. Coming from a witch she barely knows but who has proven to be so brave, so loyal, and yet is fighting on the monsters' side. Just like Caroline. Against their very nature, and what they always thought themselves to be. The smile never falters, and Sophie insists, "You'll be good for us."

You'll be good for _him_, is implied.

If Caroline's blood raced at a human pace, she'd be blushing madly, she knows. Instead, she smiles a bit shyly, her eyes instinctively moving over the crowd to locate Klaus. She finds him immediately, at the other end of the patio, standing by the refreshments table. He's talking with Tyler, something that Caroline wasn't really expecting, but that it has stopped surprising her. She quickly scans the groups of people around the area where Klaus and Tyler are standing. Hayley isn't there but Caroline hasn't seen her all night. It's not like she can even _imagine_ Hayley in a gown but, what really doesn't add up is not her absence around Tyler. Diego isn't standing next to Klaus, either, and Caroline's can't help the suspicious thought. Are the wereolves going to—?

But the funeral is tomorrow. Don't they need Diego to be there?

As if reading her thoughts—and hey, maybe that actually is an original superpower that is kept super secret—Elijah cuts short her speculations, gentling closing his hand on her elbow so she turns to look at him. She does, frowning in confusing even as her eyes bump into his smile, a bit stiff but also kind. He nods almost reverentially at her and extends his hand. "Will you give me the honour of dancing with me?"

She is _so_ not expecting Elijah to ask her for a dance that, by the time she catches up with the program, they are already dancing and Caroline is struggling to figure out what to do with her hands and feet. Elijah's hands are firm and perfectly respectful; his feet deft and graceful. His voice quiet as a breeze when he whispers, "Be at ease, Caroline. The werewolves are only guarding our prisoner. He will not die tonight."

Umm—what?

Caroline swallows difficultly, letting him lead her across the dance floor and basically renouncing the privilege of breathing, let alone speaking. Honestly, she doesn't know what she finds weirder about the whole situation, that Elijah knows what she was thinking, or that she even cares whether it's Hayley in charge of disposing of a man for whom she knows that death will be a mercy at this point. Or well, also the fact that she is dancing with Elijah. That's pretty weird too, and she literally feels like the cat's gotten her tongue. It is a very strange disquieting feeling because usually Caroline is a great conversationalist and it is only polite to engage in meaningless chit-chat with your dance partners and she really doesn't want Elijah to think she's a peasant without manners, thank you very much. She has enough on her plate with ignoring Rebekah's constant snooty derision.

"Tonight is a night for celebration, Caroline. It will not be tainted with any unpleasant matters, I promise." he reassures her again. "Just relax and have a good time."

This is tonight. Tomorrow is another day. Tonight, there is a party. Tomorrow, there will be a funeral.

"I'm having a good time," she finally says, curving her lips into an honest even if a bit feeble smile. She is having a good time. Yes, dancing with Elijah is awkward. She honestly doesn't remember having ever talked with him with and the odd mixture of jazz and waltz coming off the stage is not really helping matters—but she _is_ having a good time, in between all the awkward parts entailed by the fact that she is basically taking a flying leap into a terrifying new life. These people who surround her are all the new people that are going to be with her from now on. Rebekah, the queen of the mood swings, and Sophie the rebel witch, and Elijah the dignified brother that kind of intimidates Caroline more than a little bit. Plus Davina and whatever whirlwind of trouble she's hiding up the sleeve of her pretty purple evening gown—and what the hell is a fourteen year old doing in this kind of party anyway? No wonder the girl has issues. Oh, and also, there's Klaus's pack. Those are her people now too, aren't they? Including of course Tyler, the ex, and Hayley, the ex's girlfriend who also slept with Caroline's new boyfriend. So yeah, _awkward_.

But she _is_ having a good time.

She is actually having the time of her life, in spite of everything.

"Well, I'm glad to hear that." Elijah takes a step backwards, holds up his arm so she can spin around to face him again while he stands motionless for a second, dancing very old-school. "I do believe that your being welcome into our family is something to be celebrated, Caroline. It has been a long time—no, let me rephrase that. I don't think we've ever had the pleasure of having someone like you among us, and I must say, I am very happy for my brother's sake. And for all our sakes, too," he adds, almost as an afterthought, as he gently sways her across the dance floor, his movements as firm and oddly charming as his words.

Caroline on her part is dumbfounded. She moves like an automaton and once again she has been rendered literally speechless. _Really_, she's starting to get really annoyed at herself and at her buckling knees but, thank the heavens, before she can get any more frustrated or flustered or can even begin to think of _how_ one says thank you to the kind of implication that Elijah has just lain on the table —

—a deep familiar voice brushes warmly over her shoulder.

"May I cut in?"

She kind of wants to roll her eyes and scoff at him for the alpha male routine, but the fact is, she is _so _glad that he has come and saved her from making a fool of herself in front of Elijah by bursting into tears that it's almost embarrassing. Come on, Elijah just said that Caroline being welcome into their family is something to be celebrated and really, damn the originals and damn their crazy-ass family and damn their blue-blood nobility. It shouldn't mean anything to her, right? Falling gently into Klaus's familiar embrace, she watches Elijah walk across the dance floor towards the bar, where Damon, Elena and Bonnie are chatting animatedly. Polite and elegant as ever, Caroline watches him steal Elena away for one last dance before their guests will leave town in the morning. Shrugging in good humour, Damon grabs Bonnie's hand, following Elijah and Elena onto the dance floor. And meanwhile Caroline keeps swaying placidly on her feet and looking over Klaus's shoulder, scanning the party once again as Elijah's words are still echoing in her ears. Sophie is with Davina, sitting on the sage-coloured arbour where Caroline first got to know Camille, right in front of the tall wall of evergreen bushes. Not far from them, Stefan and Rebekah are dancing again, holding onto each other in a tight embrace.

_Being welcome into their family_, Elijah said.

Her heart in a knot, Caroline closes her eyes and presses herself a bit closer to Klaus, exhaling, trembling. _Being welcome into their family_. Caroline already has a family of her own, even if very tiny and a little bit dysfunctional—but it still means _so much_, what Elijah has said, that when she feels the recognizable weight of Klaus's hand pressing almost ardently against the small of her back, she has to suppress the urge to _launch_ herself at him. Because it means everything. This is her new life and it begins tonight and it is _forever_, so it kind of is a big deal that she is something to be celebrated for these people.

Caroline has never been something worth celebrating before.

"Are you okay, love?"

Klaus's must have notice the hint of desperation in the way she's clinging onto him. She nods against his shoulder. Yeah, she is okay. At this point, she doesn't really give a fig that their position isn't really the most appropriate for waltzing. It's a jazz band playing, isn't it? This is New Orleans. She can hold on tightly to her dancing partner if she feels like it.

The universe very obviously agrees with her, which comes as a reassurance.

That very instant, a flashing sound surges through the night.

A loud whistle cuts through the air and, immediately, the low constant murmur of a dozen conversations quiets down to a barely audible hum. Only the jazz band plays on, the tempo slowing down as the party guests arch their necks, eyes high up in the sky as a the tail of a shooting star is swallowed in the darkness.

_One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi_.

The firework pops, bangs, and crackles.

The deep-purple night-time sky erupts in a multitude of colours and, in a second, complete sets of fireworks begin flying up—whistling, popping, banging, crackling. Green, yellow, blue, fuchsia, orange—

The party is suddenly lit by an ever-changing rainbow of colours, the popping and banging of the fireworks setting up a frantic drumming rhythm that the jazz band follows as if on cue. The three-beat bars of the waltz are dropped in a heartbeat, the energy in the air shifting almost violently. New music rushes aggressively over the dance floor, spilling out of trumpets and saxophones like a flood. The broken beat of jazz invades every corner of the party, pulsing erratically beneath the loud racket of the fireworks. No one is dancing, but Caroline feels the frantic, blood-rushing groove of the music seeping into her bloodstream through her eardrums, and instinctively, she starts tapping her foot to the beat. She might be dressed up in a princess gown, and it might be a strictly white tie party, but they are in New Orleans, aren't they?

Wrapping her arm closely around Klaus's waist and setting her other hand on his chest, Caroline pushes herself closer to speak into his ear. "So much penitence and prayers, huh? I think this is the first time I see fireworks during a formal ball."

She feels his smirk curling against her forehead. Tonight is a night for celebration, isn't it? "It's a coronation, Caroline," he says, and isn't it funny, that he's just one more standing in the middle of the partying crowd? Like the first time she saw him across the crowded streets of the Quarter. "Once more, New Orleans is being reborn."

And isn't _that_ something?

Caroline smiles, only barely understanding what he means. Her feet keep on tapping to the beating of the swing jazz. Her eyes strenuously pull away from his face as she loses her gaze in the sky above once again. It's such a beautiful sight. The multicoloured fireworks go on crackling and raining down over their heads. The music keeps on swinging, faster and thicker every second that goes by. The party keeps on hopping. Somewhere in the kitchens, fresh blood is still flowing. This is Klaus, after all, dancing with a bunch of witches.

What were you expecting?

Caroline's heart leaps violently in her chest, the fervent beating of her blood broken and irregular like the pulse of the music jamming. And, hey, _isn't that something_?

Not only just New Orleans.

She too, has been reborn.

* * *

_And so it was I entered the broken world_

_To trace the visionary company of love._

_—_

—Hart Crane

**—**

**the end.**

* * *

**Disclaimer one:** The quote from Hart Crane belongs to his poem _The Broken Tower_. It's a part of the quote Tennessee Williams uses to introduce _A Streetcar Named Desire_. As you know, this story begins with Blanche's first words in the play which, as far as I am concerned, are the best lines that have been and will ever be written to describe/characterize/symbolize the French Quarter. So that is that—this is how I say my goodbyes to New Orleans.

**Disclaimer two:** I'm sorry if the reasons why Klaus is even in New Orleans, let alone ruling as King, are not very clear in this story. The reason for this is that I cannot figure out, no matter how hard I try, why it is so important that Klaus is King of a city that seems to have so little in common with who Klaus is and what his life story (five times longer than the history of New Orleans) has been like. New Orleans has a very rich, multicultural, multiethnic history that I don't think fits really well with the fate of being ruled by a family of European aristocrats but… Well. Klaus built it. Okay. He wants it. Okay. Then why doesn't he just take it? I don't really understand why Marcel survived the pilot, so… yeah. I hope the whole plot around the witches' magic being actually controlled (and not just 'detected') by Marcel somehow made the whole thing a bit easier to understand—why Klaus couldn't just go and kill Marcel. I hope the subplot about the werewolves also helped to characterize this new control over the city that Klaus wants to impose without burning it all to the ground. I hope the fact that the whole story deals with Klaus's 'weakness' in loving Caroline helped balance out Klaus's uber-powerful status with that (not so uber-powerful) of his enemies. But if that didn't work, if there are still too many plot holes and loose ends… I apologize. Why does Klaus want to be King of just one city when he is already the _de facto_ King of the entire supernatural world? Because canon says so. Why does canon say so? No freaking idea. Sorry I couldn't do a better job in forcing some sense into this premise.

**And that is all.**

**Oh, wait. Go to my tumblr, theelliedoll, if you want to see a manip of Caroline's gown. It's pretty bad as far as manips go but it might satisfy your curiosity.**

**And now **_**yes**_**, that is all.**

**This story has been a long, not always easy journey for me, and it's extremely touching to know that I haven't been alone through it. I sincerely hope that you guys have liked the story, and that it has kept you entertained for a while. Thank you very, very much for being there at the other side. Thank you for taking the time to read. And especially thank you to all of you who have talked to me through this story. I've gotten to know you guys these past three months, and honestly, I wouldn't have made it without your support and encouragement. I simply wouldn't have cared without you. Your comments and support and enthusiasm make the whole endeavour worth it and meaningful for me, so thank you. It's thanks to you that this story has made it to the end, and it's thanks to you that I haven't completely given up the joy and pain of writing fan fiction for this show and these characters.**

**It is also thanks to you that I already have a new story in mind. Like Mardi Gras, it'll be canon-complain, and even though it will focus on Klaus/Caroline, it'll be sort of ensemble-ish, too. I hope to see some of you guys there when I post it (soon), and that we continue to talk and get to know one another as we read and write and talk. **

**Once again, thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank **_**you**_**! And see you soon ;)**


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